


Teenage Fever

by Verbrennung



Series: Loyalty [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (Referenced Prositution - No Explicit Scenes), Actual Romance™ this time!, Alternate Universe, Found Family, It’s kind of rough for these kids at first but things do get better!!, Japan/Las Vegas Fusion Setting, M/M, Pickpockets, Prequel to Desperado, Prostitution, alternating pov, kids from bad family situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-13 10:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbrennung/pseuds/Verbrennung
Summary: Hajime is a pickpocket, pretty much a veteran of life in the underbelly already at eighteen years old. Tooru's a lot newer to life on the streets, vulnerable and surviving the only way he can. Their lives intersect thanks to a split-second decision, but that's only the beginning.(a prequel to Desperado)





	1. eighteen - part one

**Author's Note:**

> a prequel to [Desperado](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735801/chapters/36586596)!  
> *for those of you who haven't read Desperado, you can read this fic first or as a standalone! HOWEVER, if you plan to read Desperado, it's more effective/enjoyable to start with that one, as this fic answers a lot of the mysteries that build that fic!
> 
> to Desperado readers: yo the FUCK is up???!! here we are! what can I say?  
> this isn't quite completely finished ahead of posting, but half is done + edited already! the mood/characterization is a little different to Desp because of where the boys are at, but bear with me! i hope this answers and lingering questions and satisfies your needs for an origin story :')
> 
> a crown line break signals a timeskip, or scene/POV change!
> 
> there's a [SPOTIFY PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7fStLWKL7DcKqZd20RFrWW) for those of you that enjoy that kind of thing! songs are mostly mood over lyrics, though some do apply!  
> vibes for this chapter: American Oxygen - Rihanna; Teenage Fever - Drake; if i could i would feel nothing - blackbear

 

Hajime’s minding his own damn business when he sees him the first time. lt's while he’s standing outside of a bar, smoking a cigarette and ... not _sulking_ , exactly, but the bouncer at the door didn’t have to be quite so rude or rough about denying him entry. It’s not like Hajime even wanted to drink or anything - especially not in a place like that, full of boring old crooks sitting around playing dominoes and smoking disgusting clove cigarettes. It’s just that he hasn’t seen Irihata for a couple of days, and whilst it isn’t exactly unusual for the old man to disappear for days at a time, they’re sitting on a lot of lifted gear and a couple of the younger boys have been acting up. Hajime might be one of the oldest but it’s really not his job to play stand-in ringmaster to Irihata’s circus.

 

He’s wondering where to go or what to try next, his upper arm smarting a little from the big guy’s rough shove as he takes another drag of his cigarette, when something across the street catches his attention. He doesn’t know why he takes notice, because in this place it’s best to keep to yourself, but a car passes him and then slows to an idle at the curb further down the block, engine still running. Maybe it’s because it’s a familiar ride: a cream Turbo Trans Am, 20th anniversary edition. Hajime knows of the driver.

 

Allowing himself to turn a little to better observe, Hajime sees the reason for the car pulling up. And that’s when he sees him. Leaning against the wall is a guy: he can tell from the hair and the clothes, but he can’t really see much else from here. It makes his stomach drop - he knows the owner of that Trans Am through Irihata, and he’s not known for being nice. Not to anyone, but especially not to street workers, and Hajime’s not dumb. He’s seen enough of them, known enough, that even from this distance he knows that the boy’s turning tricks. It’s the way he leans against the brick, faux-casual, how he’s clearly hyper-aware of the car well. It’s especially clear in the way he checks up and down the street before pushing off the wall to stand up straight.

 

He can’t say why he does it. Maybe there isn’t a reason. But either way, Hajime flicks his cigarette to the ground and crosses the street in a jog, winding down to a quick but hopefully casual enough walk as he passes a closed cafe and a shuttered greengrocers, closing in on the liquor store they’re in front of.

 

The golden rims of the car gleam as they reflect the liquor store’s neon signs, and Hajime can see the window rolled down, the guy within the dark of the interior leaning over to begin a conversation with the boy. Before the younger can respond to the question no doubt being asked, Hajime calls out himself.

 

“There you are,” he says, pointedly ignoring the guy in the car and instead facing the boy - who is not what he’s expecting at all.

 

He’s got to be Hajime’s age, or younger, maybe. Where Hajime was expecting the drawn, shadowed features of a more disillusioned get, he sees only big, brown eyes, the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks pink from the cold. His clothes are nothing special, just regular jeans and a hoodie, and Hajime realizes with a start that he can’t have been in the business that long if this is how he’s still presenting himself.

 

Even more of a reason to get involved.

 

Wary of a reaction but still committed to playing the role, he wraps his hand around the boy’s wrist, bony even under the layer of worn, soft cotton. The boy is frozen, staring at him in surprise.

 

“Oi, we were having a conversation,” comes a voice to Hajime’s left, so he turns to the car window and the face of the unimpressed thug leaning towards it from the inside of the vehicle. Recognition flutters across his face, and he leans forward a little more. "Aren’t you one of Irihata’s boys?”

 

Iwaizumi represses the urge to sigh in relief.

 

“Yes, Iida-san,” he says, with what he hopes is an open, friendly smile. Irihata might not be a gangster or even a master criminal, but he’s got enough clout in these parts that the wayward boys he plays foster father to (and puts to work stealing in the city) are generally protected. It’s what he’s hoping to use to his advantage right now.

 

“And so is he,” he continues, nodding over to the boy he’s still holding onto without looking at him. “New guy; had him wait for me while I ran an errand for the boss. Sorry for taking up your time, we’ll be heading out now.”

 

He throws a quick, messy bow towards the car before he’s pulling the other boy away, not really giving the opportunity for any other outcome to the exchange.

 

“What are you doing?” the boy squawks as he staggers behind, forced to keep up with Hajime’s brisk pace.

 

“Not him,” Hajime mutters quietly in explanation or maybe advice. He strains his ears to listen past the boy’s puzzlement, past the sounds of their feet pounding against the sidewalk to hear the engine rev up as the car pulls away and streaks down the street.

 

He takes them around a couple of corners and when he’s finally content with the distance, he stops.

 

“Let go of me,” the other demands but it’s a little wobbly, a little scared, and wholly unconvincing. Hajime turns to look at his face and thinks he looks like some kind of woodland creature, innocent and scared of predators.

 

“Sorry,” he responds, and though he does feel bad for freaking the kid out, he’s not really sorry for intervening. “That guy’s bad news. He doesn’t treat …people like you, very well.”

 

The boy’s mouth works at trying to formulate a response, his features suddenly haughty and indignant. It’s an interesting change.

 

“‘People like me’?”

 

Hajime lifts a brow before reaching into his pocket for the crumpled carton of cigarettes - on his last one already, though the box was only half-empty when he stole it so it’s not really much of a surprise. He’s gonna have to grab a new one, somewhere. He lights it with the lighter he stole from Hanamaki two days ago; it’s got a busty blond woman printed on the side of it.

 

“So you’re _not_ a hooker?”

 

A splutter, but no denial. Hajime thinks it’s the reaction of someone who doesn’t know what he is anymore or how to respond. Stuck between one thing and the next. He can’t relate, personally, but he’s seen Irihata do business with enough twitchy wannabes to know the look.

 

“I--” but that’s as far as he gets, before his shoulders slump and he looks away, biting his lip.

 

Hajime stares at the boy’s profile, lit up by a security light in the alley they’re standing in. Slowly his eyes trail downwards, over his neck and lower still to where he covers his hands with the baggy sleeves of his hoodie, twisting the fabric. He’s all wrong, in that he’s nothing like any of the prostitutes Hajime has known. And he's known a few.

 

Not to say they’ve all been terrible people, or addicts, or old and weathered. Some of them were beautiful. Even more were kind. They used to take care of him sometimes, when he was younger and his mom was ‘working’. But it’s not-- He knows that kind of work is good for no one. He’s seen it up close. Almost more than any other questionable profession in this city, it’s a race to see if the work actually kills you or just destroys you in every other way. All the hookers he used to know are gone now; every single one of them. Sometimes he thinks about them. Some more than others.

 

“You shouldn’t do this,” he blurts out without thinking, immediately feeling his cheeks warm at his own forwardness. Who is he to make demands of a stranger? He’d laugh in the face of someone who tried that shit with him. The boy snaps his head back to glare down at him, which he expected - but still.

 

He almost crushes the filter of his cigarette with his thumb and forefinger at the way those eyes cut into him. That's a look than can drive to the core of you, alright.

 

“Who the Hell do you think you are?” is the waspish reply he gets back.

 

Good question, actually. Hajime doesn’t know who the fuck he is, or who he wants to be. Right now he’s just surviving.

 

He takes a drag from the cigarette and shrugs.

 

“No one,” he answers, and the boy frowns, crossing his arms in front of himself. Hajime wonders if it’s to keep him at a distance or if the boy’s literally just holding himself together. “It’s just dangerous.”

 

He gets a savage roll of the eyes in response to that, as if the boy is saying _duh_.

 

“That guy especially, he has a reputation. You should stay away from him.”

 

The boy stares at him, then he drops his arms to hang at his sides. “Okay,” he concedes after a pause, even though his tone is sulky and reluctant. Hajime is actually a little surprised. “...Thanks, I guess. But you shouldn’t just grab people and drag them away like that, you know.”

 

Hajime tuts, flustered and glancing away. “...Yeah, sorry. I was just trying to-”

 

“I know.”

 

“You should go home,” Hajime says next, after a short but awkward pause. “Where d’you live?”

 

The boy doesn’t meet his gaze, kicking at nothing. Oh.

 

Taking another drag, Hajime tries to mentally count what he has on him. Not much really, but he has a little bit of cash.

 

“You hungry?”

 

 

They sit in a 24-hour diner, and under the fluorescent lights Hajime can see dark bags beneath the other boy’s eyes, how his clothes are a little dirty, and the way his nails are bitten down about as far as they can go. He’s as tall as Hajime, if not taller, but in the booth he shrinks himself down to appear smaller, not meeting Hajime’s eyes and tensing everytime someone gets too close to him as they walk by the table.

 

“What d’you want?” Hajime asks, tapping the laminated menu, and the boy shrugs jerkily. “I’m buying,” he tells him, but the boy still won’t give an answer.

 

He sighs, sliding out of the booth to order and pay at the counter. As he orders two coffees, he counts the crumpled notes in his pocket - only enough for one meal, but that’s fine. He orders ramen for the other boy, figuring that’s probably the heartiest meal available to him right now. Doesn’t seem like his new acquaintance gets a good meal very often, and even if the diner’s ramen is bound to be pretty low-standard, it should do the job.

 

With the promise everything will be brought over when they’re ready, he ambles back over, pleased that the other hasn’t bolted since the last of a few furtive glances he’d cast over his shoulder while ordering.

 

“What do you _want_?” the boy asks as soon as he sits back down, having clearly been waiting for him to return.

 

Hajime blinks. “What do you mean?”

 

The boy shifts again, eyes finally flicking up to meet his. “Doing this. What do you want - from me?”

 

It actually makes him rear back a little, his hands flat on the plastic table top and his eyebrows shooting upwards, when he catches up with the implication.

 

“Shit - nothing. I’m not - I don’t -” He’s never… not with a hooker, anyway. His cheeks burn and Hajime darts his eyes around the diner on reflex to check if anyone else is listening in. “I don’t want _that_. Or anything. Just… you looked hungry.”

 

The boy doesn’t trust him, that much is obvious. Hajime doesn’t blame him, really. It’s just how things are - in the wide world in general, but here especially.

 

The coffee arrives and Hajime nods his thanks to the harried waitress, reaching for one of the mugs of steaming dark liquid. At the end of the table in front of the window are the usual table accessories and condiments, and Hajime reaches for the sugar shaker to add to his coffee. He mixes it in with one of those shitty plastic stirrers, then takes a sip despite the steam still rising in thick wisps from the liquid.

 

After a long, loaded moment, the boy finally reaches for the second coffee, opting to add some of the milk brought over and plenty sugar of his own.

 

They sit there, listening to the low hum of the radio behind the counter and the raucous conversation amongst a rowdy group in the opposite corner of the room, until the boy speaks up again.

 

“...What’s your name?”

 

“Iwaizumi.”

 

“You live around here?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“With your family?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Oh. You got a job?”

 

“Kinda.”

 

More silence. Iwaizumi puts his coffee cup down and decides it’s his turn to ask some questions.

 

“You got a…” What’s the polite term to use? “...boss?”

 

The boy shrinks a little more, before muttering a soft “no” behind his cup.

 

“You should be careful where you stand, then.”

 

“I know, I’m not stupid.”

 

God, okay. He’s just trying to fucking help, or - something. He doesn’t really know.

 

Thankfully it’s then that the food arrives, and Hajime nods over at the other so the waitress knows who the bowl is going to. Brown eyes lift up to Hajime’s again when it’s placed in front of him, but he can see the way the boy’s hands twitch towards the chopsticks despite his hesitance.

 

“It’s for you,” Hajime says.

 

The boy doesn’t need to be told twice, tucking in with aplomb. Hajime just sits there and watches him eat like he hasn’t seen real food in days, slurping and the clacking of chopsticks added accompaniment to the rest of the diner’s din.

 

Hajime whiles away the time fucking around on his busted phone and fiddling with the arrangement of the salt and pepper shakers, only looking over at the other boy once the sounds of eating finish. Cheap plastic chopsticks are set carefully across the top of the bowl, and then those big, brown eyes are back on him.

 

“Thank you,” it’s quiet and subdued, still a little distrustful maybe, but it’s earnest enough that Hajime shrugs in response, feeling off kilter.

 

“I should get going,” the boy says, and Hajime wastes a moment wondering whether he really has anywhere to go, but nods quick enough. He came out tonight for a reason, himself.

 

They slide from the booth and leave the diner together, standing outside the entrance, neither really sure how to say goodbye and end the encounter.

 

Hajime caves first, jabs his thumb in the vague direction he initially came from and says, “I’m gonna-”

 

The boy nods, twisting his hands in his sleeves. “Yeah,” he says in quick agreement. “I’m gonna go this way.” The opposite direction, of course.

 

“Alright,” Iwaizumi says, clueless as to why he feels the need to hover. “Well - be careful. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

 

Another nod. It looks lonely this time, and Hajime doesn’t know why but he feels the same.

 

“Maybe,” the boy says, in a way that makes it obvious he doubts it very much.

 

In unison they turn around and walk away.

 

Hajime sighs. He needs to find Irihata so the old man can take care of things like he's supposed to. Taking off down the cold, dark street, he wonders how many bars and gambling dens it’ll take before he finds him; if he finds him at all. It’s gonna be a long night.

 

He needs a fucking car.

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

It takes Iwaizumi two hours to realize he never got a name back, two more days to find Irihata, and two weeks until he sees the boy again.

 

It’s earlier this time, around 5pm, and the boy doesn’t seem to be working yet. Iwaizumi himself has just gotten off a ‘shift’, and even if his technique still isn’t the best, he’s definitely improving. Three wallets, two phones and a digital camera lie in a heap at the bottom of his rucksack - not a bad haul, though they were mostly just opportunistic grabs than steals since Hanamaki and Matsukawa were fucking around elsewhere and he had no help.

 

He’s browsing the snack aisle of the convenience store, trying to look casual whilst also being hyper-aware of the guy at the register watching his every move. Suddenly the electronic sensor above the door beeps to announce the arrival of a new customer, and both Iwaizumi and the clerk break their silent stand-off to check who it is.

 

Same brown hair, same big brown eyes. He’s wearing a different sweater though, and he has a backpack on today just like Hajime. As he’s reaching into his pocket he looks up, meeting Hajime’s eyes across the low shelving units that create the aisles.

 

Feeling caught for some strange reason, Hajime offers him a nod.

 

Surprisingly, the boy reorients himself, going from facing the counter to instead come round to the snack aisle.

 

“Iwaizumi,” the boy says in greeting, and Hajime takes a moment to be surprised he even remembers his name.

 

“What’s up?” he asks, hair on the back of his neck prickling under the shop assistant’s stare, which feels twice as intense now.

 

God dammit, he just wanted some candy and now he’s even more conspicuous with the other kid there.

 

He’s wondering whether to just swipe something and run anyway when a car pulls up outside, the engine and the lights drawing his attention to the window before they cut out. It’s a cop car, and as the door opens and a blond head pops up Iwaizumi's stomach drops.

 

“Oh shit ,” he hisses to himself, and it's just instinct when he grabs the other boy’s wrist and yanks him down with him when he ducks behind the shelves.

 

“What’s going on?” the boy asks quizzically, but crouching more or less obediently by his side, eyes wide.

 

“Fucking pain in my ass,” are all the words Iwaizumi can spare to explain as he pulls the other further down the aisle.

 

He knows cashier is still aware of them, but maybe he’ll be lucky and--

 

The door beeps again, signalling another new arrival. Fuck. He’s so fucked.

 

Pulling the boy along a little more forcefully, he reaches the opposite end of the store to the register, hoping to work his way around and out as he sneaks past the refrigerators lining the back wall. The clerk is talking now, a familiar voice responding but they've reached the end of the aisle closest to the door. Hajime straightens up and thinks maybe if they just make a run for it--

 

“Well, well, well,” comes a voice from the other end of the aisle, and Hajime puts together an impressive string of curses under his breath.

 

“Suppose it’s been a while since we last bumped into each other, Iwaizumi-kun.”

 

He’s still turned more towards the boy, so Hajime sees the way the other sees the cop uniform and then sends him a panicked look. He closes his eyes and takes a breath and then spins on his heel to face the officer, not letting go of the other. It’s like the pretense of a joke: a pickpocket, a prostitute and a police officer walk into a convenience store.

 

“Officer Mizoguchi,” Iwaizumi says with a smile. “Fancy meeting you here. Post-shift snack run?”

 

Mizoguchi huffs a laugh and rests his hands on his belt purposefully. Hajime is already hyper-conscious of all the items fixed there, and physically familiar with a few, so he really doesn’t need to have his attention drawn there.

 

“You wish, I’m on duty.” His brown eyes give Iwaizumi a once over, and then slide over to the boy he’s still holding onto. “How about we have a little chat outside, hm?”

 

Actually, Hajime would really rather not, and it’s kind of an asshole move on Mizoguchi's part to phrase it like he has any choice in the matter. Even so, he shrugs and waves towards the door in acceptance. Mizoguchi eyes him distrustfully but still heads out ahead of them since he's closest.

 

“Don’t run,” he tells the other boy, letting go of him for now and trusting him to follow him out and not do anything stupid. “It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong.” He, on the other hand, has a bag full of stolen gear. If Mizoguchi asks to see inside it he’s fucked.

 

Hajime really doesn’t need to be cuffed again.

 

God, this _sucks_.

 

They step outside to join Mizoguchi where he’s waiting by the hood of his patrol car.

 

“What a coincidence,” the officer says, arms crossed. Hajime glances to the side, checking the passenger side of the vehicle. Mizoguchi doesn't have a partner tonight, which works in Iwaizumi's favor. “When I went in there the guy said you were acting suspiciously. Did you steal anything from inside?”

 

Hajime puts his hands on his hips and looks Mizoguchi dead in the eye. “No,” he says, very happy that he’s actually able to tell the truth on that one. He's still working on his bluffs, and still hard to lie to people that know hm.

 

Mizoguchi stares at him for a minute, trying to detect dishonestly and apparently not finding any since he nods. Then he smiles a little. “Were you going to?”

 

Hajime’s eyes drift up to the darkening sky in avoidance. Mizoguchi knows him too well. “...No comment,” he mutters from between slightly pursed lips, feeling like a little kid.

 

Mizoguchi laughs and changes the subject. “Who’s your friend? Never seen him before.”

 

He doesn’t need to look to know the sudden attention has the other boy even more tense.

 

“None of your business,” is Hajime’s prompt but nonchalant answer.

 

A sharp eyebrow ticks up on Mizoguchi’s unimpressed face as he throws Hajime a flat look. “One of Irihata’s kids?”

 

Hajime scoffs. “Why would a traitor like you care?” It’s not exactly bitter, more petulant but still with an edge of real hurt that makes Mizoguchi frown. It kind of makes Iwaizumi feel like a jackass, but it also gets the cop to drop the subject, which was the whole point, so.

 

“Go the fuck home, Hajime. You know better than to walk around with a bag of gear.”

 

“I was on my _way there_ ,” Iwaizumi snaps back, petulant. He doesn’t have any siblings, but if he did have an older brother then Mizoguchi would probably be the one to fill the role. Or he would have, if he hadn’t decided to go straight and enroll in the police academy, of all places. Pig.

 

“By way of petty candy theft at a convenience store?” Mizoguchi stretches to his full height so that he can better cast his disapproving look down on them. “Go home. Go on, get out of here, both of you.”

 

Hajime snorts but takes the out, pulling the other boy with him and throwing the laziest, least respectful wave he can manage over his shoulder.

 

“Say hi to the old man for me!” Mizoguchi calls out, and Hajime’s wave turns to a very purposeful middle finger. Irihata might not hold a grudge where Mizoguchi is concerned but that doesn’t mean Hajime can’t.

 

 

“So you actually know that cop?”

 

The question throws Iwaizumi off-guard. He’d been so focused on heading home the last minute or so that he forgot he was bringing someone along with him.

 

“Mm,” he answers, letting him go so they can walk side-by-side instead. “He’s a… family friend, I guess.”

 

Surprisingly, the boy continues to walk with him even after he's been released, apparently not deterred by the random play of events. “...Are you a drug dealer?”

 

At that Hajime splutters, almost tripping on the sidewalk in his surprise.

 

“What?” he balks, throwing the other an incredulous look.

 

He gets wide eyes back. “Well, he said you had a bag full of ‘gear’!”

 

“Yeah, but not _that_ kind of gear. I don’t have a death wish.”

 

Well, okay, so his current life isn’t exactly risk-free, but everyone knows dealing is one of the quickest ways to end up bleeding out in an alley. Hajime doesn’t particularly have any desire to touch the stuff - he’s seen enough to put him off for life.

 

“...So where are we going?”

 

Always with the questions. Hajime wraps his hand around the straps of his own backpack and sends the other boy an assessing glance.

 

“Well, I’ve been told to get my ass home, so.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Turning his head back to face front, Hajime makes it his mission to concentrate on anything other than the boy as he says, “you can come, if you want. I was going to get a pizza or something - we could share.” Irihata will take care of getting rid of the phones and the camera, but Hajime figures it’s no big deal if he takes some of the cash from one of the wallets for dinner.

 

There's silence for a few seconds as they continue down the street, and then: “...okay.”

 

They don’t talk the rest of the way, not even when Hajime pushes the door open into the shitty pizza shop to order their food. The white plastic walls and counter awash with the oddly green-tinted light overhead, turning everything sickly and vague-feeling. The kid sits patiently on one of the faded plastic chairs while Hajime pretends to read an out-of-date newspaper at the counter just for something to do.

 

When their order is ready Hajime takes the box in one hand, pulling the door open with the other and letting the other boy out first.

 

“I live a couple of streets from here. This way.”

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

Tooru doesn’t know why he goes with him. Not the first time, nor the second. It’s just… It’s been a while since he’s been in the company of another person and not felt scared in some way. And with this boy - Iwaizumi - it’s not like that at all. Maybe it’s because they’re a similar age. Or maybe it’s how straightforward Iwaizumi is, or how he started their acquaintance looking out for him, seemingly without wanting anything in return. Or his kindness - by now Tooru knows he should be suspicious of someone being nice to him, but with Iwaizumi it doesn’t feel like there’s an ulterior motive.

 

Iwaizumi Hajime - the Officer had used the other's given name in their earlier conversation and he'd committed it to memory. Tooru watches the boy’s back as he follows him down a street, and for the first time he actually allows himself to wonder about him. Once is an incident. Twice is a coincidence. Will there be a third time they cross paths, and if so, what would it mean?

 

They eventually come to a stop in a shabby street packed tightly with grimy old apartment buildings. There's only a sliver of space between them, nowhere near enough to walk through, only enough space for weeds to sprout and trash to gather. There’s a doorway lit by an ugly yellow bulb, through which is a walkway leading to the doors of a few bottom-floor apartments. As they walk through, Tooru sees there’s a staircase on the immediate right made of the same dark, stained concrete as the passageway. It’s up these narrow stairs Iwaizumi heads. Tooru follows him up to the second floor despite the dilapidated appearance, because while it might not be a nice building or a nice part of town, it still isn't the worst place Tooru’s been this week.

 

He gets given the task of holding the pizza box as Iwaizumi rummages through his pocket . He pulls out a key with a tacky 8-ball keyring attached to it, and he slots into the old lock on the peeling wooden door reading 202.

 

When it’s open, Iwaizumi kicks off his busted sneakers in the genkan, then flips on a light and takes the box back to brinf it deeper into the apartment. Tooru hurries to toe off his own shoes, shutting the door behind him - should he lock it?

 

No, he should leave it open just in case he needs to leave in a hurry. Safety first.

 

As he turns back around to face the interior of the apartment, he sees that it really isn’t much. The door to what can only be a small bathroom is to his left, a bare wall to his right. It only takes three or so strides to hit the second doorway, which leads into the apartment proper - a single room, with a tiny kitchenette along the left wall. The only other things in the room are a busted old armchair, a stereo and a mattress on the floor in the corner with its sheets messed up, a pile of old magazines beside it apparently being used as a sort of side table. There’s a threadbare rug over the old flooring, too, and it’s atop this that Iwaizumi sits, placing the box down in front of himself.

 

It might be an objectively shitty apartment, but it’s a roof over Iwaizumi’s head; his home. It has working electricity and it’s not freezing and it’s not full of a bunch of other people he barely knows and certainly doesn’t trust.

 

Tooru thinks it’s amazing.

 

Gingerly he settles himself down opposite Iwaizumi. The other boy flips open the lid on the box, and the pizza is so freshly-made that wisps of hot steam rise from its greasy surface up into the space between them. Iwaizumi doesn’t wait to take a slice, and after a moment of hesitation, Tooru takes one for himself, too.

 

It’s highly possible it’s a shitty pizza - the shop wasn’t exactly the best, after all, but to Tooru it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. It’s hot and full of flavor, not just leftovers offered to him after the fact or a quick snack to tide him over til the next day. It’s so good that he can’t help the hum he lets out in appreciation, though he cuts the sound off as soon as he’s conscious of it, eyes darting to the side in embarrassment.

 

“So what’s your name anyway?” Iwaizumi asks after another moment, and Tooru is pleased for the distraction but not for the question itself.

 

He looks up and sends a frown Iwaizumi’s way, but the boy is watching him patiently, face a picture of neutrality.

 

“You know mine,” he says, and Tooru doesn’t think it’s bargaining - just Iwaizumi stating ‘fair’s fair’. And it’s true; he does know the boy’s full name - Iwaizumi Hajime. He’s been thinking about the way it sounds for a little while now, though of course he’s never spoken it out loud.

 

“...Oikawa,” he finally says, after a loaded pause that tells him Iwaizumi is more than prepared to wait him out for the answer he wants. “Oikawa Tooru.” It feels weird. It's been a while since someone has cared enough to ask.

 

Iwaizumi hums and takes a bite out of his next slice. He seems to consider the information as he chews, and after he swallows he nods as if approving. “Oikawa. S’nice,” is all he says.

 

Oikawa feels vulnerable in giving the secret away, but the fact that Iwaizumi seems happy to leave it at that makes him feel relieved; like maybe it wasn’t a mistake to trust him with it after all.

 

It actually feels kind of good to have someone know who he is again, at least on the most basic level. He’s been nameless for a while. It makes him feel a little more human to have his name known.

 

They continue to eat in silence until the food is gone, but it’s not uncomfortable. It's not often Oikawa eats a full meal these days, and he spends a couple of minutes considering the feeling of having a full belly. He almost feels comfortable. Suddenly, Tooru is hit with curiosity - could they be classified as friends now? If he thinks rationally it really isn’t that long since he’s had a friend, but at the same it feels like a lifetime ago. He’s missed having company.

 

Given the time and the quiet to think to himself, the security of having no pressure to perform a certain way for the other, it’s pretty much inevitable that his mind starts moving a mile a minute. He’s naturally curious and talkative, a thinker, and clearly it’ll be a while before that’s forced out of him. He mulls over what happened earlier at the convenience store, and cocks his head.

 

“So what ‘gear’ do you have in your bag?” he asks, even though he knows he really shouldn’t, “if it really isn’t drugs.”

 

Iwaizumi shrugs, thankfully unbothered by the question. “Stuff that isn’t drugs,” he says. Something legally dubious then at the very least, since he’s being so tight-lipped.

 

Oikawa stares at him in subdued challenge. Iwaizumi stares back. Oikawa feels himself pout a little at the fact he won’t be overcoming this stalemate, and ducks his head.

 

“Where do you stay, usually?” Iwaizumi asks, and Tooru doesn’t know if it’s revenge for his own prying but it certainly feels that way. It's a straightforward question; one that crosses a line for Tooru.

 

“Around,” he says, a clear streak of hostility bleeding into his tone, a warning that this is not a topic he’s willing to discuss with the other.

 

Flint-green eyes watch him for a moment, then Iwaizumi is flipping the empty box closed with a sigh. He mutters an ‘okay’ and then picks it up, stretching up to stand so he can go leave the trash on the kitchen counter.

 

Oikawa thinks the action is probably his dismissal, but as he stands himself Iwaizumi turns on his heel to lean against the counter and watch him. He looks like he wants to say something, but it takes him a while to spit it out. Seems like it’s going to be something other than a simple _see ya_ or worse, _get out_ , so Oikawa waits to hear it.

 

“You can tell me to back off if you want,” Iwaizumi says eventually, sounding a little moody as his eyes focus more on the floor than Tooru himself. It’s not really a bad attitude, though. Maybe if he knew Iwaizumi enough to be sure, Oikawa might say he‘s embarrassed. “And it’s not like I think you’re a charity case or anything. But if you have to work tonight, or need to leave to go do whatever… You can use my bathroom before you go. Take a shower or something, maybe. I’m not trying to say you need it or anything - but. I’ve got hot water. If you’re interested.”

 

It’s a lot more than Oikawa has ever heard the other boy say at once, and he thinks it’s kind of obvious that Iwaizumi isn’t a big talker by the way he doesn’t really take a breath during it. That and the difficult expression on his face, like he's struggling putting words to what he wants to say. It’s also not at all what Tooru was expecting, and he stares at Iwaizumi with his mouth slightly agape, frozen where he’s already reaching for his own backpack.

 

It’s true that moving around place to place, not knowing where he’s going to stay or whether he’s going to get a client that’ll get a motel room for the whole night and let him stay there after they've gone back to their wife, means that certain luxuries just aren’t his main concern. Taking a real shower - bathing with hot water even - rather than a quick, cold and crude wipe down out of a sink basin is a rarity.

 

Oikawa doesn’t know how Iwaizumi knows that. The way he talks around the subject shows he’s never been in the work, but looking around at his apartment and the circumstances in which they’ve met, twice now, definitely indicate he’s involved in life at the bottom of the totem pole. He sure seems to know enough about Oikawa’s ... job, in a peripheral way. Tooru wonders if he isn’t the first prostitute in Iwaizumi’s life.

 

Still, the offer is yet more kindness. He doesn’t know what to do with it. His hand finds the top handle of his backpack and he lifts it, holding it close. He knows he's asked before, but he still can't help but wonder: what does this boy want from him?

 

Iwaizumi looks like he’s struggling to form words again. It’s quite sweet, really, because he seems like a guy who knows what he’s doing most of the time. Or at least someone who’s good at looking like it.

 

“There’s, um. There’s a lock on the bathroom door, so - y’know.”

 

The jerky wave of his hand that comes after that finishes the thought for him, Oikawa thinks. _There’s a lock on the door so you can feel a little more safe while you’re vulnerable. There’s a lock on the door so you don’t need to worry about me taking advantage of you. There’s a lock on the door so you can finally have some privacy._

 

Suddenly, Tooru remembers the other boy’s words from the first time they met; the first kind thing he did for him: _I don’t want that. Or anything._

 

He believes him - and how crazy is that? He shouldn’t, but he does. There's something there; something about him. He really believes the things Iwaizumi Hajime says.

 

“Is that-- Are you sure that’s okay?” He doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, give the other boy a chance to rescind the offer, but… He had manners hammered into him as a child, and for some reason it doesn’t feel right to take such a precious gift on the first offer. He has to make sure, mostly because he's sure this can't be happening.

 

Iwaizumi’s shoulders drop slightly, relaxing an inch as if he'd expected a negative reaction, and he gives an obliging shrug.

 

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he says, and Tooru believes him. “There’s a towel in there already that you can use.”

 

Tooru takes that for the go-ahead it is and nods. He steps back towards the mouth of the main room, trying not to be obvious about the way he’s eyeing the other before he slips back out into the short stretch of flooring running alongside the small bathroom that can’t even really be called a hallway.

 

He flicks on the light to the bathroom beside the door, and the extractor fan too. There’s a control panel for the hot water above it, and Tooru fiddles with it quickly, increasing the number with a few beeps and wondering just how hot he can get it without Iwaizumi minding.

 

That done, he pulls the door open and slips inside, shutting it behind him quickly and pushing the lock. It’s bizarre. The bathroom is tiny - he can barely stand comfortably in the limited space between the toilet on his right and the small shower/bathtub to his left. The sink is right in front of him, and Tooru settles his bag on the floor between its pipes and the toilet. As he straightens up, he catches sight of himself in the spotted mirror above the sink, fixating for a moment on his limp hair and the purple smudges beneath his eyes. Just a few months ago, he was so normal—

 

He closes his eyes tightly, pressing his fingertips over his scrunched eyelids, and wills away those thoughts. They’ll only hurt him.

 

Distantly, he hears the old stereo in the other room start up, fuzzy static overlaying a pop song until the frequency is adjusted and the sound becomes clearer. Tooru isn’t sure if Hajime wants the backing track or if it’s yet more privacy for him, but he’s fiercely grateful for it either way.

 

He uses the toilet, then washes his hands. Fall is starting to wane and head closer towards Winter, and the cold water is icy on his perpetually chilled fingers. Suddenly he’s very excited to turn the shower on.

 

Stripping slowly, he stacks his old, dirty clothes carefully atop the closed toilet seat. Standing in the cramped bathroom nude and unsure, Tooru watches the shower’s meager spray grow hotter until the bathroom begins to fill with steam. Nimble fingers spread and reach out into the falling stream of water and he actually gasps at the heat of it.

 

It’s impossible to resist any longer after that. He climbs over the high side of the tub to stand under the shower head and the hot water beats down on his head and shoulders, soaking his hair through and trickling down his back and arms. It’s too hot, probably, but Tooru relishes the burn. He imagines it heating him from the outside in, soothing all his soreness and burning off all the unwelcome, foreign touches his skin has had to endure these past few months. It’s bliss.

 

When his mind gradually pulls him out of his trance and into some kind of wakefulness, he looks around and sees there’s not really much to use to help him get clean. A couple of empty bottles yet to be thrown away are lined along the ridge of the tub, along with one almost completely full containing a blue gel that claims to be shower gel and shampoo in one. He picks it up, flicking open the lid and bringing it to his nose to give a cautious sniff.

 

It’s not something he would have settled for Before, but he’s learnt that he can’t afford to be so picky now. He inhales the artificial scent of what’s probably supposed to be some kind of masculine cleanliness, and distantly wonders if this is what Iwaizumi smells like.

 

Despite its arguably low quality, Tooru squeezes a generous dollop on his palm, and when he rubs it into his hair and his skin he can’t deny it makes him feel better. He applies it liberally, covering every inch of him and rubbing it in ardently - only to wash it away and do it all again a second time. All thoughts of being an inconvenience to Iwaizumi, or using up his hot water and driving up his bills, are so far from his mind in his mission to get as clean as he can.

 

The hot water and the soap feel like heaven. They too make him feel more human again.

 

Tooru stands under the spray for a little longer, though he eventually does become conscious once more of Iwaizumi and more importantly, not taking advantage of this gift,. He finishes off by washing his face and neck again with the bar soap on the sink, and then with his shower done, he climbs out of the bathtub. He reaches down to fish through his bag for the well-used toothbrush at the bottom, stealing a little of Iwaizumi’s convenience store brand toothpaste to clean the inside of his mouth as well as possible too.

 

The towel he uses to dry himself off with is threadbare, too old and well-used to really be soft, but Tooru can’t really bring himself to mind when he feels this clean.

 

He changes back into his clothes, his skin so pink from rubbing and scratching that it looks as new as it feels. He hangs the towel back on the rack and then spends a few moments making sure everything in the room is just as he found it before he unlocks and opens the bathroom door.

 

The music from the stereo is louder now there’s no barrier to muffle the sound and Tooru steps down from the bathroom suite, damp feet stuffed back into thin socks, to pad back into the main room.

 

Iwaizumi is sitting on the old armchair beside the kitchenette, the brown material sagging in places and threadbare in others. Oikawa doesn’t think he ever bought it new, and while it’s clearly more than just a little worse for wear now, the other boy looks unbothered by its disrepair as he flicks through a magazine.

 

He shuts it when he notices Tooru is finished, attention redirected.

 

“It’s raining,” Iwaizumi says somewhat apologetically, nodding towards the window set into the wall beside him.

 

Feeling his heart sink to his stomach, Tooru heads over and slides it open a little, enough that he can hear the heavy splattering of rain drops on the rooftops nearby. He feels the cold chill of the night’s air hitting his flushed, damp skin. It’s a rude awakening, and he fights to maintain his breathing, keep his cool, as he slowly shuts the window and turns his face towards Iwaizumi to see what will come next.

 

Again, he's surprised.

 

“You should stay here tonight.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Iwaizumi shrugs and turns those strange, serious eyes away from the window and back to Tooru. “You’ll get sick if you go out in this, especially with your wet hair.” He nods over at him to prove his point and in reaction Oikawa tucks a lock of damp hair behind his ear, suddenly extremely self-conscious. “Plus, will there even be a lot of… business, in this kind of weather?”

 

He does kind of have a point, Tooru thinks. To head out into the rain, even if he waited a little while to dry his hair somewhat, would totally negate the whole point of the shower. Right now he feels… good. Warm, clean. All of that would be undone, if not the moment he stepped into the street, then certainly the moment a car pulled up to the curb beside him. Not to mention getting sick in his situation would be bad news for him, a total complication.

 

And if he’s got a guaranteed roof over his head, well. The need to work isn’t as pressing right now, for one. It can wait until tomorrow. He’s already eaten well today.

 

There’s still a chance this isn’t as kind a gesture as it seems. If he’s going down that route of thought then Tooru thinks at best it could be some kind of cruel joke, at worst it could be something plenty more sinister. A trap of some kind.

 

But the way in which Iwaizumi keeps offering him these things - awkward and shy and almost as if he’s bemused by it himself - seems so real. There’s just something about him that Tooru can trust in. Staying in this apartment with him is leagues better than a room in a motel or a shelter with other strangers.

 

Despite all the common sense he should be listening to right now, his fingers curl around the stretched cuffs of his sweater and twist. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but there’s not an ounce of malice or annoyance in the gesture. He's already getting up off his chair.

 

“I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t okay, dumbass,” he scoffs, almost tripping over his feet on his way across the room immediately after he tosses out the insult, as if he just realized what he said to his guest.

 

Tooru actually snorts in response, more at the other boy’s reaction than the words themselves. Iwaizumi casts a surprised look over his shoulder as he heads to a closet built into the wall at the sound but then he smiles, lightning quick, before turning to slide the door open.

 

There’s not much in there. There’s a shelf halfway up that bisects the storage space, and Iwaizumi guides his own backpack into the bottom half with his foot at the same time he gathers the blankets atop the shelf into a bundle in his arms. Tooru watches, hovering in the middle of the room and unsure what to do, as Iwaizumi passes him to dump the blankets onto the chair he’d just been sitting on.

 

“You can have the mattress,” Iwaizumi declares with a gravity that expects no argument. He dumps a small, spare cushion on the chair’s arm and then starts to shake out the spare blankets which he’ll apparently use himself.

 

Sleeping on the chair? In his own apartment? That doesn’t sit well with Tooru.

 

“No, this is your home, Iwaizumi-kun,” he says quickly, surprised himself at the use of the familiar suffix, before pushing past it. “You should take your bed--”

 

Iwaizumi tuts, turning around to rest his hands on his hips. “I get to sleep there pretty much every night.”

 

The way he’s talking, it’s as if he doubts Tooru has the luxury of such comforts, even if he doesn’t know for sure. He’s not wrong, but Tooru smarts a little at what he’s starting to suspect might be pity. He doesn’t need or want that - not from Iwaizumi, not from anybody. He might not have much but he still has his pride.

 

“I’m not a damn charity--” he starts to argue, and Iwaizumi huffs in what might be annoyance, sitting down heavily on the busted armchair.

 

“I already said it’s not like that,” Iwaizumi says. “But you’re here. And this is my house, which makes you a guest. And if you invite a guest into your home, you take care of them.”

 

And apparently that’s that. As if it’s that simple.

 

He wants desperately to argue - he’s really not this timid, agreeable person. But… they’re also not there yet. Tooru can’t quite believe all this, and he certainly doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize whatever this is for the sake of his already battered pride.

 

Dropping the backpack that contains the sum of all his worldly possessions onto the mattress, he hovers for a moment. Iwaizumi’s already getting comfortable in the chair, slotting the cushion behind his head.

 

“You’re going to sleep already?”

 

“Mm, it’s not that early. Plus, aren’t you tired?”

 

He’s exhausted, actually. Pretty much always is.

 

“Oh, we should lock the door…” Oikawa says instead of saying as much, more to himself than anything, already twisting in that direction.

 

Iwaizumi’s gaze is on the side of his face and Oikawa flicks his eyes to meet it just before the boy speaks. “You didn’t lock it earlier...?” he starts to ask, but as soon as he voices it, it’s like he already works out for himself why Oikawa didn’t. Without another word he nods.

 

Tooru nods back, grateful for the understanding, and then goes to secure the lock and chain fastening.

 

When he comes back to the room the main light is off, with only the stand lamp in the corner along from the mattress giving off a dim yellowish glow. Iwaizumi is back in his chair - almost like he never got up at all although he must have - already looking surprisingly comfy and settled under his blankets. His eyes are closed, and he looks totally unbothered at having Tooru in his space.

 

Just as he’s about to climb onto the mattress himself, Oikawa falters.

 

“Do you want me to get the light?” he asks, voice soft and tentative.

 

“Whatever you prefer,” Iwaizumi answers easily, without even opening his eyes.

 

Oikawa leaves it on.

 

It’s not like he has a perfect night’s sleep. He’s used to resorting to sleeping in strange and unfamiliar places, so being on edge is his default setting these days. He wakes up every half hour or so (his usual self-preservation mode kicking in on its own). He switches from slumber to high alert in a second, checking his surroundings first by ear and then by sight.

 

Each time, Iwaizumi is right where he'd been when Oikawa went to sleep and eventually he’s able to calm down enough to slip away again, only for the cycle to repeat. That’s just how it is.

 

What is strange, though, is how much of a relief it feels to look over across the room and see the other boy there, looking totally at ease in his sleep.

 

The mattress might be old and without a bed frame but it’s comfortable. The forest green duvet is soft and warm, smelling like cheap detergent and something else - a mix of scent that must be closer than the shower gel to what Iwaizumi himself smells like.

 

The breaking light of dawn must put him more at ease, because the first time he drops back off after the bright cerulean of late night/early morning burns away, he sleeps for a stretch that’s got to be close to two hours until he wakes up again.

 

This time, Iwaizumi is awake. The blankets are gone from the chair, which he now sits in cross-legged as he leafs through a wallet that seems too fancy to be his own.

 

Tooru keeps still as he watches him, but it isn’t long at all before Iwaizumi flicks his eyes over to him, not looking the least bit surprised by the fact he’s being watched. Oikawa sits up, clutching the duvet to his chest despite the fact he’s fully clothed.

 

He should feel well-rested for sleeping so long - and he does - but his limbs also feel heavy, his mind dull and drowsy. It’s as if his body finally knows what it’s been missing and wants more. Not that he can give it what it wants.

 

“Mornin’” Iwaizumi says, and that’s... nice, starting the day off with company. Usually he’s either alone in a rented room, or in a shared room with strangers in similar situations to him. Those mornings, when he wakes the other occupants are either still passed out or just determinedly not making eye contact with anyone.

 

They don’t have breakfast together; there’s no food in Iwaizumi’s apartment. Instead, they head to the local laundromat together, each with a backpack full of dirty clothes to be washed. Tooru actually has enough to cover them both, and they sit side by side on the rickety bench, watching the drums spin round and round without saying a word.

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

The jingling of a bell cuts through the air, and Hajime snarls, ripping his hand away.

 

Everyone stops and he feels eyes looking over at him for his outburst, but he doesn’t fucking care. This is stupid. Footsteps on concrete echo through the old workshop and gradually the few other boys hanging around turn back to their own tasks, starting their conversations back up.

 

“You’re distracted,” a deep voice says from behind him, and Iwaizumi huffs.

 

The presence rounds to his left, and he flicks his eyes over to look at his mentor where the man stands with his hands in his pockets.

 

“You’ve been getting better,” Irihata says, surveying the oddball installation in front of them.

 

It’s a ‘teaching instrument’: a mannequin procured from god-knows-where dressed in a full suit. Not too unusual in itself, though its placement in the decommissioned workshop might be a bit questionable. What’s extraordinary is the intricacy of what surrounds it.

 

The workshop is of course an industrial space, made obvious old, long-since used machines abandoned in the corners of the concrete space and the metal rafters above. The mannequin stands directly beneath the intersection of two metal beams, and from them hang lengths of old, thin chain ending at various points around the mannequin’s torso. They hang in such a way that they form an almost protective barrier around it. An added security measure are the numerous bells attached to the chains: it means that it’s incredibly hard to reach the mannequin without disturbing the chains and thus ringing the bells, which make failure clear as - well, a bell.

 

Granted, it’s a great way to practice quick and effective pickpocketing, teaching angles of approach and helping adapt to subtle, limited movement. But it’s also frustrating as fuck on the days Hajime’s hands won’t cooperate and the ringing of his failures is near constant.

 

It’s a hardcore old school method that Irihata apparently suffered through himself. He’s a traditional bastard; says the old ways are the best.

 

“But not too great today,” Irihata finishes his observation with a hum. “Got something on your mind, kid?”

 

Iwaizumi takes a deliberate step back, needing some sense of distance from the fucking bells and sighing out in frustration. He knows Irihata is genuinely concerned - his demeanor is often calm and coaxing like this when he’s teaching (or offering a crude form of makeshift counselling) and it does make him easier to talk to. Hajime trusts him, but... It’s not exactly something he can put into words, or something he even wants to try to.

 

Two weeks, five days. No sign of Oikawa Tooru. It’s longer than last time and - god, he doesn’t know, but he figured they know each other better now. He thought they’d cross paths again, quicker than last time.

 

It’s got nothing to fucking do with Hajime really, but he’s still wondering where Oikawa is.

 

If he’s safe, if he’s hurt, if he’s hungry.

 

If he’s fucking dead.

 

All of those thoughts are messing with his head. Hajime has always been the type to look out for himself and his own - he might be associated with Irihata’s wider circle of boys but the people he cares about is a very limited sphere. There’s Irihata, but even then he’s very aware that the other man is the adult in their relationship, and Irihata vanishes for days on end to do his own jobs and Hajime has learned to deal with it. It's frustrating, but it doesn't particularly worry about him. There’s his best friends, too, but it's a given he'd care about them.

 

And now, apparently, there’s Oikawa. Someone he barely knows, but there’s something about him that Iwaizumi just can’t let go of. He doesn’t know what it is, or what words to even apply to it.

 

Tampering down the urge to snarl, he strides over to the stupid fucking desk Irihata keeps here, picking himself a Malboro from the pack the man had left there earlier. His mentor follows him over, tuts at the sight of the stolen cigarette in Hajime’s mouth, but still lights it for him anyway. Then he takes one for himself and settles in his chair.

 

“It’s not like you to be so openly frustrated, Hajime.” Irihata levels him with an assessing stare, leaning back and taking a long drag.

 

He doesn’t call all the kids by their given names - Iwaizumi is aware that he probably doesn’t even _know_ the names of some of the ones he lets in to his little school for thieves. He certainly doesn’t show them much attention. But Hajime has been in his care longer than most.

 

His favorite, some of the kids say, some mockingly and some snidely. Hajime doesn’t know if he believes that so much. To Irihata, they’re all tools to be used more than anything else. Employees at best. Hajime is just older, more mature than most of them, and whilst that makes the two of them more familiar purely through time spent together, it also means he sees Irihata and his operation for they are. He’s way past expecting him to play dad.

 

One corner of Irihata’s mouth quirks up and there’s a shit-eating spark in his eye. “Love troubles? Have you got yourself a little girlfriend?” He asks, before he’s squinting and cocking his head to the side, remembering an awkward conversation they'd had a while back, “or a boyfriend?”

 

“Fuck off,” Hajime says without heat, and Irihata huffs. Though the older man has no problem reprimanding rude behavior, he also knows when it isn’t meant that way. And if he gives the older kids a little more leeway, well, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

 

“That’s not a no, kid," he prods, getting comfortable in the charge.

 

No, it’s not. But that doesn’t change the fact that Iwaizumi doesn’t have a girlfriend _or_ a boyfriend. Oikawa’s sleeping face might have pervaded through his mind at the mention of such a thing, but honestly, Hajime isn’t sure what he feels for Oikawa. He’s not experienced enough to put a name to it, he thinks. All he knows are hormones and lust, and that’s definitely not what he feels. And he barely knows the other kid, so it sure as fuck isn’t love.

 

...Curiosity, maybe.

 

He ruminates over that as he takes a throat-burning drag of Irihata’s cigarette. Curiosity… it feels close enough.

 

“How do you get someone out of a bad situation?” he asks after a long silence. He doesn’t want to ask; he hates bringing his issues to other people, and he doesn’t think he and Irihata necessarily have that kind of relationship. But still, the old man is basically all he has - his list of options is pitifully short.

 

The man’s expression is serious when Iwaizumi finally flicks his eyes back over that way. He lets out a very put-upon sigh, actually resting his smouldering cigarette in the ashtray so he can address the question directly. The way he’s looking at Iwaizumi, it’s like he already knows what the issue is. Or is at least too close to it for Hajime to be comfortable.

 

“There’s no changing another person, kid,” Irihata says, mouth a grim line. “Sometimes there’s no realistic alternative to stop people from doing what they do, and that’s life. But even more than that, you can’t help someone that isn't ready to help themselves.”

 

Hajime thinks about that, long after they’ve finished their impromptu cigarette break and he returns back to practicing steals on the mannequin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oikawa i'm so sorry lmao  
> don't worry though, diamonds are formed from immense pressure after all :')
> 
> *[mannequin](https://d2e111jq13me73.cloudfront.net/sites/default/files/styles/review_gallery_carousel_slide_thumbnail/public/screenshots/csm-movie/pickpockets.jpg?itok=FQNa3_Oq) taken from the colombian movie [pickpockets](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt7527694/), which was part of the "research" for this series. it's not too bad! f you can't speak spanish i think netflix has it with subs? 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://verbrennung.tumblr.com/) and now also [twitter!](http://www.twitter.com/verbrennunq)
> 
> thanks for reading! comments/messages/tweets are very appreciated!


	2. eighteen - part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for a great response on the first chapter!!
> 
> if you like bgm/mood music, feel free to check out the [SPOTIFY PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7fStLWKL7DcKqZd20RFrWW)

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, and yet when Oikawa approaches that same old liquor store, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets and hoping to catch some business, Iwaizumi is there.

 

He’s sitting on the low brick wall at the side of the plot that separates the parking lot from the sidewalk. Despite the chill in the air, his body is relaxed into a masculine-looking slouch, one leg kicked out straight so his battered sneaker protrudes into the sidewalk. There’s a cigarette dangling from his lips until he brings up a hand to pull it away, exhaling a long trail of smoke that immediately disappears into the frigid air. Oikawa isn’t sure what has brought the other boy here to the place they first met ‒ maybe it's just a coincidence. After all it must be close to a month since the last time they saw each other, the morning after Tooru spent the night at his place.

 

It’s just been a lot for him to deal with. He remembers where Iwaizumi lives - has found his feet taking him towards that neighborhood more than a couple of times in the weeks since - but he can never quite bring himself to intrude. They’re total strangers. It’d be stupid. It was stupid of him to go there the first time.

 

Even if it’s been offered to him it’s too much to take, especially since Tooru has nothing to give back. Well... he has one thing, one currency to use to survive, but Iwaizumi doesn’t want that.

 

Oikawa can't blame him in the least.

 

Still, the temptation of having the other right in front of him is too much to resist, and after half a second of hesitation he’s stepping towards him. Without a word, he sits himself down only an arm’s length or so away from him on the wall. Iwaizumi jolts as he registers the presence of someone else, and the way his eyes track over Tooru seems to be a double-take of sorts, but then - inexplicably - his tensed shoulders relax.

 

“Look who it is,” Iwaizumi says, and he doesn’t sound pissed, not exactly, but-- there’s some degree of unhappiness there that Tooru is able to pick up on. It immediately makes him feel bad, and he drops his gaze on instinct.

 

He’s expecting questions, or some kind of reprimand maybe, but what he gets instead is a weary sigh.

 

“I thought something might have happened to you,” the other boy mumbles, and Oikawa’s gaze jumps back up to catch Iwaizumi’s frown before it's obscured by another deep drag from his cigarette. He holds it in his lungs for a moment, his eyes sliding to the side to meet Tooru’s, before he turns his head the other way to save him from the secondhand smoke as he exhales.

 

Tooru doesn’t understand the gesture or what it means particularly, but he’s oddly flattered by it anyway.

 

“I’m alive,” is the response Oikawa decides on after a short pause, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He can’t exactly say nothing happened, because basically every day something happens that he’s not proud of or that scares him. He can’t say he’s fine either, because the truth is he never really is.

 

There’s also the fact that he’s also incredibly conscious of what Iwaizumi really means by ‘something’, so his response (while obvious) is also the most direct answer to what the other boy is really getting at.

 

 

Iwaizumi bows his head and lets out a huff, but it’s not by any means light-hearted. It wasn't a very funny joke, nor was it meant to be.

 

“Yeah,” he says, scuffing the heel of his sneaker against the pavement and rolling the filter of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, “me too.”

 

As Iwaizumi puts the cigarette back to his lips, Oikawa takes the opportunity to watch him. His head is dipped low, and Tooru’s gaze lands on the back of his neck. The tanned skin there is stretched and exposed by the other boy’s current posture, bathed in the almost ghostly pink glow of the liquor store’s neon sign. Oikawa is oddly transfixed by it. The thick, dark hair at the base of Iwaizumi’s skull sticks out wildly just like the rest of it does, and Oikawa finds himself nearly overwhelmed by the urge to lay his hand there to smooth it down. Maybe he’d even continue the trail of his hand down that expanse of skin he’d just been admiring, just to see if it’s as warm as it looks.

 

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he curls his frozen fingers tighter in the confines of his pockets and swallows it all down.

 

Such desires he can’t understand. He’d barely just begun exploring those kinds of thoughts when he was caught in the act and thrown away like garbage rather than flesh and bone. Until now, he’d thought that everything he’s been through since that day had repressed everything of that nature; ruined it, maybe.

 

...Still, it’s not like this is just physical interest. There’s something else that pulls him to Iwaizumi and makes him want to stick close: how he feels when he’s around him.

 

Getting attached to the first person who shows him any kindness is thoughtless and naive. He knows that. Trust no one - that’s what he’s taught himself.

 

But he doesn’t want to owe anyone either, and that’s how he rationalizes it to himself when he thinks of the money currently in his back pocket and says, “hey, I owe you for food -” and so much more, if he’s honest “- let’s go to the diner.”

 

Iwaizumi turns to look at him. Eyes that seem to oscillate between dark green and slate gray are dark in the strange lighting of the parking lot as they analyze him all over again, considering.

 

“Alright,” Iwaizumi concedes after a while, pushing himself up to stand and flicking his cigarette out into the street.

 

Oikawa sits there, entranced as the spent smoke bounces once and then rolls along the road, the lit end throwing off spurts of ash with the movement before it’s snuffed out completely when it lands in the remains of a puddle, discarded. Then suddenly there’s a body in front of him blocking his view, and Oikawa looks from the brass buttons of Iwaizumi’s denim jacket up to his face.

 

“You coming?” Iwaizumi asks, his arm twitching as if he means to lift it - to offer a hand, maybe - until he seems to decide against the movement at the last second.

 

Tooru’s answering nod is hasty before he rushes to stand too. Together, they turn to head towards the diner.

  


 

They both get burgers. Oikawa’s latest customer might not have been generous in the way he spoke to him but he left extra cash, which is more than he usually gets in compensation for rude, derogatory assholes, so he can stretch to paying for both their meals and even a drink each. Iwaizumi asks for a coke and Oikawa orders himself a strawberry milkshake, thinking he can indulge his sweet tooth this once.

 

The tired-looking server casts a glance at them over her shoulder as she takes their order to the kitchen window, and then a few minutes later returns to their table with glasses larger than the regulars Oikawa had ordered with a soft, secret smile that makes him duck his gaze, chest clenching. As they wait for their food, Iwaizumi stirs the ice cubes in his glass with his straw, watching Oikawa from across the table.

 

“You look happy,” he says. “You like sweet things?”

 

Oikawa pulls back from his own straw and sits back in his seat, suddenly shy. “I guess,” he mutters, fingers fluttering around the base of his own glass, surprised at how easily he’d relaxed into just enjoying his drink.

 

Iwaizumi just hums and continues to stir, the straw going round and round and the ice rattling incessantly. It gets faster, and without his thoughts to distract him, it’s loud and obnoxious. Even so, it's still a little while before Oikawa cracks.

 

“That’s annoying,” he complains, frowning at Iwaizumi, who just grins.

 

That only makes Oikawa’s lips turn down even more. Iwaizumi shrugs and while he lets go of the straw, he doesn’t look at all apologetic.

 

“Just checking.”

 

“Just checking what?”

 

Iwaizumi rests his chin in his hand. “If you would tell me if I was pissing you off,” he says, and he doesn’t seem annoyed, so Oikawa thinks he might have passed the test. “And you did.”

 

In an attempt to distract himself somewhat, Oikawa looks down at the tabletop and brushes a few stray grains of salt off the edge with his hand. “What does that mean?”

 

“Means we’re friends, I guess.”

 

Tooru can’t help it, he sends Iwaizumi a flat look and then crosses his arms in front of his chest. Guarding himself, always.

 

“And how do you figure that?”

 

Iwaizumi’s expression morphs into something a little more serious, and a jolt of nervousness twists sharply in Tooru’s gut.

 

“Because,” Iwaizumi says slowly, in a way that makes it seem like he’s searching for the right words. “I figured you can’t really be honest with most people you… come into contact with-” that’s a polite way to put it, Oikawa thinks with some amusement before Iwaizumi continues, “-so I guess I wanted to check if it was like that with me; if you just talked to me and said yes to my offers because that’s how you…”

 

He waves his hand instead of finishing his sentence, and Oikawa figures then that Iwaizumi isn’t very good with words, or at least at articulating certain things. He still totally understands what Iwaizumi’s getting at, though. ‘How you survive’, maybe, or something along those lines.

 

“It’s not like that,” Oikawa says quietly, gaze lingering on the empty space by Iwaizumi’s left ear. “I don’t feel like that person when I’m with you,” and that should be an embarrassing thing to say, along with how shameful it is to admit that he _is_ that person most of the time. “I don’t really… I’m not that scared, with you. I don’t need to think that much.”

 

It’s more weakness than he should admit, probably - the fact that he _is_ scared a lot; that he feels that much of _something_ when he’s with the other boy.

 

It's something like security, he thinks. It's dangerous, because if he lets his guard down - if he stops thinking, observing, bracing himself - then he’s leaving himself wide open. Even in this moment he feels raw and exposed sitting in the vinyl booth of the shitty diner. Admitting so much leaves him tense and uneasy under both the fluorescent lights and Iwaizumi’s gaze.

 

The response allows him to lose some of that tension when it comes though, because Iwaizumi just says “that’s good. I’m glad.” And that’s it.

 

Once again when the food comes they busy themselves with eating rather than worrying about talking, though there is a sort of conversation in the way the two of them take turns to glance up at the other. Occasionally their eyes lift at the same time and their gazes meet. They’re quick to look away each time it happens, and it’s so silly that it helps them both relax, privately amused.

 

With each time they meet like this, it gets more and more comfortable to share space with each other. Oikawa likes it even if he shouldn't.

 

They’re definitely friends.

 

They continue like that until their plates are basically empty, only the crumpled napkins and streaks of ketchup evidence there were whole meals there at all. Oikawa slurps up the last of his milkshake and then they head out of the diner.

 

Unlike last time, they don’t hover and split. Instead, they wordlessly set off in the same direction, ambling along the sidewalk as Iwaizumi rifles through his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter.

 

“That’s bad for you,” Oikawa says, bolder now with his words but still not quite able to meet Iwaizumi’s eyes when he says something even vaguely negative.

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything in response, only giving a vague hum of agreement as he holds the filter between his lips, bringing the flame up to the other end.

 

That curiosity of Oikawa’s, though. “Why do you do it?”

 

He chances a glance this time, just in time to see Iwaizumi shrug as he slides the lighter back in his pocket.

 

“Don’t know,” the boy murmurs, “just always been around it, I guess. I didn’t really think about it when I started a few years ago, it just seemed natural.”

 

Oikawa can’t relate. He’d been surrounded by the kind of adults that turned their nose up at such a filthy habit. Health risks and stereotypes and a ‘foul’ smell that clung to clothes and ruined perfectly curated appearances.

 

He’d tried it himself, but hadn’t particularly liked it. And now his view of smoking has inevitably been colored by the kind of men he finds himself surrounded with. The way it smells on stale work shirts and tastes in equally stale mouths makes it even less of a draw.

 

That’s still the case, except now there’s Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi, who always smells faintly of cigarettes and apparently has a habit of rolling the filter between his thumb and forefinger in between drags, making it impossible for Oikawa not to associate the habit with him at least in some way. It’s definitely not as jarring or unpleasant when it’s done by the other boy, especially since he continues to always turn away from him to exhale, saving him from the majority of the smell and dirty air.

 

They talk a little about inane topics, like funny things they’d witnessed in the few weeks they’ve gone without seeing each other, or things they pass as they walk, but mostly Oikawa thinks they just enjoy each other’s company.

 

And then Iwaizumi’s phone rings, jolting them both. Oikawa hadn’t ever really registered the boy having one, so he watches with interest as the boy pulls it out, peering at the caller ID on the cracked to hell screen before answering.

 

Iwaizumi holds the device to his ear with one hand, the cigarette sticking out the corner of his mouth as he shoves the other hand into his jacket pocket. They pause under the dirty awning of a closed store as Iwaizumi conducts his conversation, Oikawa listening to only one side of it as Iwaizumi tells whoever it is that no, he’s busy tonight.

 

It doesn’t seem to work out as an excuse however, and his frown deepens before he sighs, tells the person on the other end of the line to “wait a damn minute” before he pulls the phone away from his ear to hang at his side.

 

“My friends,” he says, with some consternation, “are hanging out tonight, at the pool hall not too far from here. Wanna go?”

 

Oikawa’s hesitation must be clear to see, because Iwaizumi shuffles half a step closer and lowers his voice a little more.

 

“You don’t have to; _we_ don’t have to. They’re fine, though. Both of them are same age as me, and not any more suspicious.” He cracks a grin at that, and Oikawa can’t help but sigh shyly in response.

 

His immediate reaction to the invitation is an odd feeling of possessiveness - he doesn’t really want to share Iwaizumi with anyone else, especially when it’s been a little while since they’ve seen each other and they’re having such a good time. But on the other hand, Oikawa has apparently already made a friend when his world has been so lonely lately, and this might be a chance to make more.

 

Not to mention he’s bound to learn more about Iwaizumi if they go, and the boy is such a mystery to him still.

 

“Okay,” he says, almost as surprised as Iwaizumi when the words leave his mouth so quickly. He’d really been planning to think it over more, but apparently he’s up for it.

 

Iwaizumi waits another moment, eyes checking Tooru over as if making sure he’s really fine with it before he’s lifting the phone back up and offering an affirmative.

 

The call ends then, the phone ending up back in Iwaizumi’s pocket as they change direction towards where his friends are waiting. Oikawa feels his nerves return a little as they walk, but he’s still a social person at heart, and he’s really missed talking to people just for the hell of it. They turn onto a street and Oikawa can see their destination, the chipped and faded sign proclaiming POOL HALL in big, painted letters.

 

“They can be real nosy and annoying,” Iwaizumi says as he pulls the door open, revealing a set of narrow wooden stairs leading downwards, dimly lit by a couple hanging bulbs. He waves for Tooru to go ahead of him as he continues, “but you don’t have to be nervous. Just tell them to shut up if they pry too much.”

 

Oikawa pauses in his descent, turning to look back up at Iwaizumi curiously. “Are they gonna interrogate me?” he asks, and while it’s an attempt at a joke he thinks he lets his nervousness slip through. Maybe it's not such a good idea. If they want to know what he does for a living or how they met, it’s-- well, Oikawa’s not exactly proud of any of that stuff. It doesn’t exactly give a good first impression.

 

“Nah,” Iwaizumi responds. He plants his hand on top Oikawa’s head, twisting his wrist to encourage him to face front and continue down the stairs, but then retracts his hand soon after. It’s been a while since Oikawa has been on the receiving end of a casual touch with zero intent behind it. It’s jarring, but it’s also nice in a weird way. Iwaizumi’s voice is low and calm behind him.

 

“Just tell ‘em to shut up if they ask too much. And I’ll be there anyway, so it’ll be fine. If it isn’t we can leave whenever.”

 

 _We_ , not _you._

 

With Iwaizumi’s comforting presence at his back, Oikawa reaches the bottom of the staircase and after taking a bracing breath in, he heads through the doorway.

 

Immediately he blinks, eyes adjusting to the haze of cigarette smoke permeating the air and making the already dim lighting even dimmer. It’s a bigger room than he’d expected: beyond the intermittent pillars that support the structure of the basement room, Oikawa can make out three rows of tables that stretch towards the back wall, at least four of five tables in each line. The sounds of pool balls glancing off each other and the thud-and-roll of successful pockets punctuate the hum of conversation buzzing through the room, and even if Oikawa hadn’t expected as much already, he can tell by the timbre of the sound that the room is mostly occupied by older men.

 

This is where he flounders, because the only adult males he encounters these days are usually not the greatest of people. It panics him, to suddenly be in this environment, and he’s already berating himself for being so shocked. He should have expected as much.

 

Iwaizumi must pick up on some of it, because he doesn’t hesitate. Before Oikawa’s thoughts can spiral, the other boy steps around him and grabs his sleeve on the way past so he can tug him along.

 

They’ve only met twice, and it’s already like this between them. With wide eyes, Oikawa stares down at the hand gripping him - the hold is secure, but not rough in the slightest. He tries to calm his irrational heartbeat as they weave through tables, dodging men dipping low to take shots as well as others perched on stools, spectating and awaiting their turn. Thankfully the table Iwaizumi pulls him over to is in a corner, which makes him feel like less of a spectacle, hyper-aware as he is of potential gazes coming his way.

 

When they finally stop and he looks up, Tooru is met with two curious gazes. Boys close to his own age, as was promised. The first one that catches his eyes is lanky with pale skin and hair an eye-catching mix of latte brown and pastel pink. The butt of his cue is on the ground, and his arms wrap around the pole as if he’s using it as a support to stand. Keen eyes appraise Oikawa right back, interrupted only by the occasional blink until his gaze slides over to Iwaizumi at Tooru’s side. Thin brows lift and the boy’s expression morphs into something sly.

 

Oikawa should be nervous at that look, maybe, but he just feels the curiosity he’s been carrying since earlier grow. He’s not sure what he’d expected Iwaizumi’s friends to look like, but having the reality in front of him is fascinating.

 

Movement catches the corner of his eye and he turns to look at the other figure properly for the first time. He’s the tallest of all of them, Oikawa notices, when he pushes off from the pillar he’s been leaning against and stretches to his full height. His hair is dark and unruly like Iwaizumi’s, but where Iwaizumi’s manifests into messy spikes, this new boy’s locks twist and curl at the ends, both upwards on the top of his head and downwards against his forehead and temples. Beneath that are thick eyebrows, and dark eyes half-obscured by heavy lids. With all those features, he could so easily be intimidating, but Oikawa doesn’t feel that way in the slightest.

 

“So who’s your friend, Iwaizumi?” the first boy asks, wrapping his fingers around the cue and then flinging his arm out to the side to unravel it from around the stick in a flourish. He taps the butt of it against the floor as if to punctuate the question, before hopping up onto the pool table to perch on the edge, narrowly missing disturbing the balls currently in play.

 

Iwaizumi sighs.

 

“This is Oikawa,” he says, with a flutter of his hand in Tooru’s direction. “No, he doesn’t want to play, _especially_ not for money. Be nice.”

 

Then he’s herding Oikawa towards an empty stool right in the corner of the room, and as Tooru settles onto it, he’s infinitely grateful for the security of the wall at his back. Here, he feels less on display, and a lot less vulnerable. Iwaizumi stays with him, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms.

 

“Oikawa, that’s Hanamaki Takahiro,” he informs him, pointing at the first boy, who’s _still_ grinning as he offers a salute, “and Matsukawa Issei.” That’s the second boy, the taller one. He nods, and then turns his attention back to the table.

 

Hanamaki isn’t so easily satisfied, though.

 

“Oikawa, huh,” he hums, eyes moving from Oikawa to Iwaizumi. “Were you guys on a date or what?”

 

Iwaizumi makes a choking noise at the question, lurching forward and coughing into his fist. Oikawa turns to him and blinks at the reaction, before turning back to Hanamaki. It seems Iwaizumi is having some difficulties, so he chooses to answer instead.

 

“No,” he says, somewhat confused at how breezy the question had been. It’s not so normal, right? For that to be the first assumption from Hanamaki’s lips? Then, strangely emboldened by the facetious question and the challenging twinkle in the boy’s eye, Oikawa cocks his own head to the side in mocking imitation. “Were you?”

 

Hanamaki slithers off the ledge of the table, his grin turning a little sharper in response. “Not quite,” he says, turning and taking his cue in both hands so he can dip to ready a shot. He sends it off with a crack, though he doesn’t pot anything, and straightens back up.

 

As the other boy, Matsukawa, surveys the table Hanamaki sidles up next to Iwaizumi, settling beside him against the wall.

 

“I’m helping Matsukawa warm up before his shift.”

 

Oikawa blinks, leaning forward to look around Iwaizumi to regard Hanamaki, “shift?”

 

Hanamaki doesn't respond - it’s Iwaizumi that huffs and turns warm eyes to Oikawa.

 

“Matsukawa is a low key genius,” he tells Tooru, looking over at the table which has Oikawa following suit.

 

Matsukawa lingers at the corner of the table, lazy eyes trailing between all the balls on the felt field of play as if he’s getting a lay for the table before he takes his shot.

 

“By that I mean he’s really, really fucking smart. Pool - it’s all just angles and math to him,” Iwaizumi continues, and Oikawa realizes that must be what Matsukawa is seeing - calculating - as he calmly looks over the table.

 

There’s no doubt he can hear what Iwaizumi’s saying, but even so Oikawa can’t be sure if Matsukawa is putting on a show or not when he takes his shot. He draws his rear hand back; by extension, the cue slides back against the bridge created by the splayed thumb and fingers of his forehand, before he boy smoothly thrusts it forward again. The tip of the cue connects to the white cue ball with a dull sound, sending it forward to smack against another with a crack. The colored ball hurtles towards the far cushion on the table, bouncing off the surface to ricochet off one of Hanamaki’s. The collision changes the ball’s course, sending it directly into a seemingly random corner pocket. Then comes the familiar thud-roll of the ball as it enters the tables inner-workings to get lined up with the others.

 

If Oikawa hadn’t just heard what he had, he would have thought the shot was a complete fluke.

 

“Oh, cool,” he says mostly to himself, impressed.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Iwaizumi grin.

 

“Most of the old guys in here are hustlers,” he tells Oikawa as Hanamaki goes to take his next turn, playfully pretending to jab at his opponent with his cue on his way around the table. “That means they’re really good players who wager big bills. If new blood comes in, they might downplay how good they are so they get underestimated, then take the fool for all the cash he has - that’s sharking. Most of the time, they’ll play each other for the thrill of it; to see who’s better.”

 

Interested in this new culture he’s been brought into, Oikawa lets his eyes sweep over the room. For the most part it just looks like a place for (mostly) older guys to hang out and play pool, but if he really looks there are a couple of tables nearby with bills visibly stacked on the top rails.

 

“So when you say ‘shift’...”

 

Standing close by as he waits for Hanamaki to finish his shot, Matsukawa smiles.

 

“Matsukawa gets underestimated a lot. And the guys that _do_ know he can play well think he’s a novelty. Either way, it means on a good night he can clean up.”

 

Oikawa wonders if it’s a hobby or if it really is a job for Matsukawa; if he needs the money and this is the way he gets it. Then, for a foolish second he wonders if _he_ couldn’t do this instead - but that thought gets dismissed just as easily. It’s not that easy, he knows.

 

He leans back against the wall and continues to watch the game progress, but eventually he can’t help himself: “is this what you meant when you said you ‘kinda’ had a job, Iwaizumi?”

 

Oikawa turns to look at Iwaizumi, who blinks at him.

 

“No, I’m a pickpocket.”

 

Oikawa hadn’t expected him to say yes, but he also hadn’t expected any form of real answer either, since Iwaizumi has been a little cagey about that sort of stuff so far. There’s not an ounce of falsehood or jest in the words - Iwaizumi is telling the truth with his response. Tooru wonders if this has anything to do with Iwaizumi’s revelation about them being friends earlier, like maybe they can be a bit more honest with each other now.

 

Still, he has to check: “really?”

 

Iwaizumi shrugs again. “Yeah, for the most part. I was taken in by a guy who was pretty good at it, and he's been teaching me everything he knows. I work for him now.”

 

A snort comes from the table, and Oikawa looks up to see Hanamaki watching him, keen eyes observing.

 

“Careful, Iwaizumi,” he says, without averting his gaze from Oikawa. “Tell him too much and he’ll run off and tell his parents.”

 

The both of them freeze at the comment. Iwaizumi’s friends hadn’t exactly immediately embraced him as a friend, but Oikawa still hadn’t expected the undercurrent of hostility that underlines Hanamaki’s tone. Somehow he still recovers before Iwaizumi, though.

 

“I don’t have parents,” he says with his chin tilted up, defensive at the jibe. It makes him feel like even more of an outsider at the insinuation - even worse, one that might not even be welcome at all. Even more, it serves the double-duty of reminding him of the fact he really has been abandoned by his family. He has no one. His answer is heavy with his emotion, cutting in response to that fragility, and it’s almost like the constant din of sound surrounding them cuts out with the gravity of those four words and the warning Oikawa laces into them.

 

Iwaizumi’s voice cuts in, trying to break the tension and the eye contact between Hanamaki and Oikawa. “He’s not gonna tell, Hanamaki, don’t be a dick.”

 

The boy’s eyes linger on Tooru a moment longer, surveying every inch of him it feels like, before his gaze drags over to Iwaizumi and he shrugs. “Fine,” he says, turning around to watch Matsukawa’s shot and effectively ending the conversation.

 

“He’s not trying to be an asshole,” Iwaizumi says to Oikawa after letting out a put-upon sigh, standing in front of him to block his view of the other boy and the glare he’s still sending Hanamaki’s way.

 

Oikawa blinks and turns his face up to Iwaizumi, listening now.

 

“It’s just hard to trust people at first. You know what that’s like,” is what Iwaizumi finishes with.

 

Clutching the edges of the stool, Oikawa sighs. “You’re the one who brought me here,” he mumbles, suddenly worried he’s blown this whole thing.

 

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi agrees. “Which means you’re okay, in my eyes. But it is what it is, so it might take some time.”

 

Or it might not take much time at all. It doesn’t seem long at all until the miniature stand-off is let go, everyone relaxing and getting excited as Matsukawa starts getting challenged for games and really does clean up as a result. Iwaizumi stays by Oikawa’s side the whole time, but once Hanamaki is demoted to spectator he seems to accept Oikawa is sticking around and adapts to the situation accordingly.

 

They don’t speak much as they watch, not wanting to break Matsukawa’s concentration or antagonize the older men that come along to play or spectate. It’s not easy being around so many people after so much time alone, but Iwaizumi’s steady presence remains a constant at Oikawa’s side, making him a little more comfortable. Now and again Iwaizumi and Hanamaki will murmur dry or mocking observations about Matsukawa’s opponents to each other, and more than once Oikawa has to duck his head, press his lips together to suppress a smile. He and Hanamaki might not have had the best start, but he's already getting a feel for the dynamic between the two boys and it's fun to observe.

 

They don’t stick around for longer than a couple more hours, because apparently it’s best to earn what you can and get out quickly, before things get too heated and trouble brews. According to Matsukawa's murmured story, he and Hanamaki have seen more than a couple of cues snapped or used as an improvised weapon in their time as semi-regulars at this particular hall.

 

It’s nice, traipsing up the stairs and out into the cool night air as a foursome, even if Hanamaki doesn't talk to him, clearly still wary. Matsukawa has warmed to him a little, asking him what he thought of the pool hall as they walk, but overall doesn’t seem the type to say much.

 

It almost feels like high school as they idle on the sidewalk, and yet it’s undeniably different when he looks at himself and where he is. Still, the illusion of a sliver of normality is nice.

 

“So what,” Hanamaki asks, kicking at the curb idly as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “You gonna bring him to Irihata one of these days?”

 

It’s not aggressive - more a mix of curiosity and reservation. The question is clearly directed at Iwaizumi, and Oikawa twists his head to watch the boy for his answer.

 

“Dunno,” is all Iwaizumi says, busying himself with fastening the buttons of his denim jacket to ward off the cold.

 

Hanamaki looks like he maybe wants to follow that up with something else, but Matsukawa nudges him on the shoulder and diverts his attention with a soft “we should get going.”

 

“I’ll see you guys around,” Iwaizumi says to them, offering a lazy wave before looking at Oikawa and nodding his head in the direction they came from earlier. “Stay at my place?” he asks, so that Tooru doesn’t have to ask himself, or maybe so that he can still say no if he really doesn’t want to.

 

He does want to, though. He longs for another night’s sleep like he had the last time.

 

They get back to the apartment and Iwaizumi gestures to the shower without a word. When Oikawa is done scrubbing himself anew, the other boy is already settled amongst the spare blankets on the armchair. Oikawa has so many questions - about Hanamaki and Matsukawa, about who Irihata is - but Iwaizumi’s eyes are already closed, effectively cutting of that line of questioning before it can even begin. Instead Tooru slides under the covers on the mattress left vacant for him, ducking his head to take in the warm scent before he drifts off into sleep.

 

He rests a little easier this time.

  


 

 

When Oikawa wakes up the next morning, Iwaizumi’s still asleep. He’s slumped to the side in the old chair, neck craned at an angle as he snores quietly. Oikawa watches him for a few moments, tracking his eyes over the other boy’s face for a few moments. Asleep and unguarded like this, Iwaizumi actually looks his age, which is strange since he seems so composed when he’s awake. Or maybe he’s just trying to seem that way - his dark eyes always serious and contemplating; analyzing to some degree. Here he looks softer, and maybe even a little more innocent.

 

Tooru pushes the blankets down to his hips and sits up, looking around and wondering what to do until the other wakes. His eyes catch on the stack of magazines by the mattress - he’d noticed them the first time but never really examined them. He does so now, elbow digging into the mattress as he leans to the side to read the cover of the topmost issue.

 

It’s a car magazine. That much is obvious from the photograph - a shiny red car weaving around a mountain pass - and the topics of the articles within, though it's clearly a couple decades old at least. Curious now that he’s started, Oikawa tilts his head to look down the side of the stack, at all the neatly-aligned spines. They’re all from same magazine, a myriad of dates far in the past by now. Each issue is worn at the edges and if the topmost one is anything to go by they’re all dog-eared - it’s not just their age, but the fact they’ve all been flicked through numerous times that contributes to their wear.

 

Oikawa is trailing his finger down the stack, wondering if he should pluck a random one out to examine more closely when a voice from behind him jolts him out of it:

 

“They were left out on the street.”

 

A smile comes to Oikawa’s face at the other boy’s raspy morning voice.

 

“You like cars, huh?” he asks, finally craning his neck to look back at the other.

 

Iwaizumi hasn’t moved from the chair, but thankfully he’s stopped straining his neck with all his head-lolling. He watches Tooru right back with sleepy eyes, still soft from his slumber. His spare blanket is pulled right to his chin, and with the chair in reclining position his socked feet stick out from the bottom of the covers. It’s oddly endearing. Oikawa feels the strangest sort of feeling in his chest - like expansion, like soaring - that tells him this image is precious, and that he’d very much like to see it again.

 

When Iwaizumi shrugs, his feet twitching with the movement, Oikawa smiles, his nose wrinkling with t.

 

He doesn’t want to leave, but he knows he’ll have to eventually.

 

As if showing his agreement with that dawning realization, Iwaizumi throws the blankets off himself and stands up. He turns away from Tooru as he gathers fabric in his hands, shaking the sheets out and folding them back up one-by-one. Oikawa watches him from the mattress.

 

“I like hanging out with you,” he blurts to the other boy’s back. Immediately after, he blinks in surprise at himself - he’d been thinking it, sure, and maybe he’d wanted to say it, but he’d hoped he could deliver it a little better before he headed out. A little less earnest, perhaps.

 

Iwaizumi stills for a second, and then continues his folding. “I like hanging out with you, too,” he says as he turns to take the blankets back over to the closet set into the wall. As he crosses the room, his eyes - more green than gray today - flick to the side to meet Oikawa’s, who feels his cheeks warm. He dips his own gaze down to his lap, shy.

 

“Hey, I was thinking,” Iwaizumi’s saying now, and Oikawa glances back up. “There’s something you should have.”

 

He doesn’t look back at Oikawa as he tracks over to the tiny kitchenette and rustles through a drawer, shoulders drawn up. Gingerly, Oikawa rises from the mattress, bare feet hitting the cold, cheap lacquered wood flooring as the sounds of Iwaizumi’s rummaging fill the room.

 

Honestly, Oikawa isn’t sure what he’s expecting. But it’s certainly not this.

 

Iwaizumi turns and walks determinedly towards him, something clenched in his fist. Without meeting Oikawa’s eyes at all he lifts his hand, holding it out so Oikawa doesn’t really have any other choice but to raise his own palm-up beneath it. Iwaizumi places the item in Oikawa’s waiting hand and then pulls away.

 

He still won’t meet Oikawa’s eyes, instead keeping his gaze trained on his hand. Brown eyes dip down to look too, so that he's able to identify the new weight as a single bare key. It’s silver but rusted in places, the metal only somewhat warmed by Iwaizumi’s brief hold. Immediately, Tooru’s throat constricts because there’s no way this gesture could be misconstrued.

 

“I just figured it would come in handy,” Iwaizumi says, his face pinker than before when Tooru looks at him, his eyes darting around the floor between them. “So you could come here whenever you needed to, without us having to meet somewhere by chance.”

 

Oikawa’s heart is beating so fast, he’s not sure his chest can contain it. The sound plugs up his ears for a terrifying second, and his sight blurs as his eyes grow warm with gathering moisture.

 

“I don’t have a keyring,” Iwaizumi is yammering now, and he pulls away from where they were standing almost toe-to-toe in the center of his apartment. “I was looking for one, but couldn’t find-- but maybe…”

 

Oikawa is speechless, and can only turn to watch dumbly as Iwaizumi moves back to the closet, crouching down to reach the same old backpack he’d seen last time. Yet again it’s full of mysterious items that rattle and clunk together as Iwaizumi pulls it towards himself and unzips the main compartment - he rummages for a moment before he huffs in victory and stands back up, prize in hand.

 

When he turns around Oikawa can see a long, golden chain in his grasp - nothing ostentatious or special, but when Iwaizumi brings it closer Oikawa can tell it’s the real thing by its color in the morning light.

 

He only realizes his hand is still frozen in front of himself when Iwaizumi picks the key right back up out of it and threads the chain through the hole.

 

“Maybe this would be better; make it harder to lose.” Iwaizumi re-fastens the clasp and then places it back in Tooru’s hand, the point of the key making contact first until the whole thing is lying flat in his palm once more, the length of the chain pooling on top of it until Iwaizumi finally withdraws altogether.

 

Oikawa looks from the key, to Iwaizumi’s red face, back to the key again. The words… he can’t find them. He doesn’t cry - he's still feeling far too blindsided for that, but he does feel a whoosh of emotion curl up from his stomach to fill his chest and throat.

 

“Iwa-chan,” he says through that odd, encompassing sensation, unsure of where the name comes from exactly. All he knows is that ‘Iwaizumi’ feels too distant for what has just been given; what has just been shared between them. The nickname is something Oikawa might have called the other boy had they met in his old life, where he was infinitely more happy and carefree. Iwaizumi makes him feel safe, endlessly generous as he is and has been, and that’s enough to bring Tooru closer to that place; to the _him_ he thought he’d lost already.

 

He wants to remind the other boy that they don’t know even each other. He wants to tell Iwaizumi he’s stupid for trusting a stranger this much. He wants his own brain to catch up and realize that this is fucking ridiculous. That this can’t be real life; that it has to be a dream.

 

And yet, he can’t do any of that. A stubborn seed of hope has been planted in his chest and he just can’t bring himself to uproot it.

 

“Thank you,” he finishes, the two words full to the brim with all those emotions before he swallows it all down. Then, carefully and with hesitant reverence, Oikawa pulls the chain over his head to hang around his neck.

 

When he tucks it safely under his shirt the key rests at his breastbone. The rapid beating behind it loudly broadcasts to him just how close to his heart it is, making it impossible to ignore.

 

Iwaizumi nods, the movement jerky, and swipes a hand through his already aggressively-messy hair.

 

“You can come any time,” he says, fighting - and apparently winning - a battle to lift his eyes to meet Tooru’s. “Whenever you need it, even if I’m not here. I don't mind.”

 

Bottom lip jutting out in his efforts not to blubber, Oikawa nods. His hand closes over the key.

 

He won’t take this for granted - this is possibly the most precious gift he could ever receive. Later, he’ll think of all the silly material things he used to want and huff at his own idiocy. None of those things ever mattered.

 

Things like this are monumental, and mean much more than Oikawa could ever hope to understand right now.

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

Oikawa disappears back into his own life later that day, but it’s fine. Hajime thinks it’s good to have some time to themselves after… all that. He’d tried his best not to make it a big deal, but he thinks they both felt whatever that was. Oikawa’s tearful thank you had been earnest. There has been no way down to dress down the moment.

 

It’s strange, how Iwaizumi feels infinitely better about Oikawa being out there when he knows the other has a way to come back to him. But it’s not just inherently selfish - it’s also somewhere safe for Oikawa to go if he needs it, and that’s so much more important. It’d been clear that the other boy didn’t have that elsewhere, so Iwaizumi’s glad he has it now.

 

They operate like that through the transition of fall to winter, heading through the new year. Once or twice they meet up by chance still, because it’s inevitable that they’ll eventually cross paths since they both haunt the same shitty borough on the outskirts of the city, but more often than not, Oikawa uses the open invitation.

 

At first, he knocks on the door and waits outside for Iwaizumi to answer (or on a couple of occasions, to come home) but after Hajime calls him an idiot and tells him to just use the damn key, Oikawa does. Sometimes Iwaizumi’s home when it happens; sometimes he comes home and Oikawa’s already there, lingering inside and unsure what to do. After a few times he starts to contribute to their meager groceries, and one day when Iwaizumi walks into his bathroom, he sees a new shampoo there. Over the following week or two, a matching conditioner follows, then a nicer soap. It’s a slow process, because Iwaizumi figures Oikawa doesn’t have all that much spare money to indulge like that - Iwaizumi sure as hell doesn’t - but it happens.

 

It’s weird, but every time Iwaizumi finds something new in his apartment that he didn’t buy and doesn’t belong to him, he feels warm, satisfied.

 

So it works like that for a while. Oikawa even insists he start sleeping in the chair at least some of the time, his stubborness only increasing as he gets more comfortable. It's a pain in the ass to argue over something so petty, so there are a couple of nights where Hajime relents even if it does feel weird. It saves his neck and back from the now-familiar aches and pains, he supposes.

 

He stays out of Oikawa’s business for the most part, because he doesn’t have any say in what the other does and that’s fine. That’s how it should be. Hajime worries of course, but he doesn't tell him to stop - Irihata’s earlier advice rings in his head, louder on some days than others.

 

It’s fine.

 

...Until it isn’t.

 

Hajime reaches his limit on a cold night in late January. There’s an unforgiving wind that whistles through the gaps in the buildings and sends fat droplets of icy rain crashing against the window pane as he reads a book Irihata had thrown at him earlier, telling him to 'get some culture'. The story is mildly interesting, but his mind is on other things@ it’s not a nice night to be outside and he hopes Oikawa shows up soon, even if it means another night sleeping in that fucking chair for him.

 

He’s looking at his jacket on the floor, locked in a mental debate between staying here and minding his own business or heading out on a baseless quest, when there’s the sound of a key turning in the lock.

 

The door opens, and Iwaizumi is already tense from his mental gymnastics, but _something_ puts him on high alert. Oikawa doesn’t offer any greeting like he usually does - they’d been tentative at first and then jolly, as if he was always happy to be back here whenever he did decide to drop by. Instead, Iwaizumi hears the sounds of shuffling as the other boy removes his shoes, and then heads straight to the bathroom.

 

He stays in there for a while - maybe the longest yet - but he has to come out eventually. And he does.

 

The fabric of both his hoodie and his jeans are dark in patches from where they’ve been caught by the heavy rain outside. Oikawa doesn’t look at him when he enters the room; in fact, he seems to be making the effort to keep his face turned away. His hood is pulled up, covering what Iwaizumi knows is wet, freshly washed hair made unruly by towel drying. It also happens to obscure the majority of Oikawa’s face, which is always flushed bright pink after a shower from the hot water he loves to use. Everything feels _wrong._

 

“What happened?” Hajime immediately demands, hackles raising as he pushes out of the chair.

 

Oikawa freezes, and that instinctive physical response makes Iwaizumi halt immediately.

 

So something _did_ happen. Iwaizumi feels dread pool in his stomach.

 

“Oikawa,” he says, and it’s a plea rather than a warning.

 

He _hears_ Oikawa exhale, and then the boy raises his hands to shakily pull down his hood. When he turns, all Hajime can see is a red, swollen cheekbone, so out of place on the other’s sweet face. Iwaizumi knows what kind of mark that is, just like he knows how it must throb in pain, and how it’s going to look much worse tomorrow.

 

Hajime doesn’t ask who did it or how it happened. There are so many potential sources that it simply doesn’t matter - and besides, what could he do about it? He’s just a fucking kid himself. Instead he just reaches out a tentative hand and feels his chest constrict when Oikawa cringes away in advance of the contact. In the end Iwaizumi stops himself, his hand hovering an inch or so from his cheek for a second before he drops it altogether.

 

“Are you okay?” he whispers instead, and he’s forced to witness the wretched sight of Oikawa crumpling in on himself. The tears come pretty much immediately afterwards.

 

Iwaizumi is careful, so fucking careful, when he wraps his arms around the boy’s shuddering form and pulls him close. To his surprise, Oikawa collapses into him, stooping a little to push his forehead into Iwaizumi’s shoulder, his hands coming up to cling to the fabric of Iwaizumi’s sweater. He’s crying now - bawling, really - taking ugly gasps of air between sobs like he can no longer fight to keep it all contained.

 

He’s not good with people, really. He doesn’t have much experience with deep, emotional connections. He has Irihata, who’s more of a boss than a father, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa, but even they don’t really talk about personal things that much. Iwaizumi is eighteen years old with his own problems, and he wishes that he knew the best way to comfort this boy who’s already been through so much worse than him.

 

He’s clumsy and unsure, not half as confident as he projects, but Hajime does his best. He holds Oikawa until the boy has cried all he can, until he finally grows tired from it all. Iwaizumi shushes him occasionally, knowing better than to try and soothe him with additional touches when Oikawa deals with so much unwanted physicality already. When the shuddering breaths slow and then cease, Iwaizumi keeps a hold of him but stares at the wall ahead of himself and says, very clearly:

 

“No more.”

  
  


They leave the light on that night, and Iwaizumi watches the form curled up on the mattress long after shuddering breaths slow and relax.

 

 

 

He keeps vigil until he can no longer keep his eyes open.

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha ha ha h a oikawaiamsosorry
> 
> thank you as always for reading!!
> 
> i'd love to hear from you in the comments! alternatively, you can also find me on [TUMBLR](http://verbrennung.tumblr.com) or [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/verbrennunq), so feel free to reach out to me in whatever way is comfortable for you!  
> (i guess i'm using #teenagefeveriwaoi on twitter now for TF-related tweets, so please use it too if you want ~~so i can stalk all of u)~~


	3. eighteen - part three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm SO sorry for the long wait!! going through some ~life changes~ right now which has unfortunately left doing the final checks and edits on the pre-written chapters way down on my list of priorities (let's not even talk about the stuff that still needs to be written.... yikes) i hope this is worth it, though!!
> 
> thanks as always for all the wonderful comments, messages on tumblr and tweets! love u all
> 
> ALSO the wonderfully talented and super nice arielle drew a [sketch of the key scene from the last chapter](https://twitter.com/plasticplanty/status/1090155173421502464) and i'm still in awe of it!! please like and retweet the shit out of that!!!




 

Hajime wakes up late the next morning. The first thing he registers is the familiar stiffness he feels every time he sleeps in the chair - and then he remembers _why_ he slept there. His scramble to sit up is rushed and inelegant, though he immediately relaxes when he spies the familiar lump still under the blankets on his bed. There’s the slightest rise and fall to the mound - the reassuring rhythmic breathing of sleep.

 

He leaves Oikawa to it and pushes out of the chair. Grabbing his phone, he sends a text and then goes about his daily routine, trying to be as quiet as possible as he showers and changes so the other can continue to get some much-needed rest.

 

Serious deliberation between various packets of instant food is interrupted by a jaunty set of knocks on his door. Oikawa lets out a soft noise in response, the covers rustling as Hajime hurries towards the genkan.

 

When he swings the door open, he’s unsurprised to see Hanamaki standing there, though the tense set to his shoulders isn’t something he expected.

 

“What happened?” is the other boy’s immediate question, stepping up close to examine Iwaizumi’s face. “Are you okay?”

 

Iwaizumi swats him away. “Did you bring it?” he asks, trying to get straight to the point.

 

“Yes,” Hanamaki says, suspicion lacing his tone even as he obediently lifts the plastic bag in his hand, “but what the fuck? What _happened?_ ”

 

“I’m fine. Just keep quiet, would you?” he asks, holding out his hand for the bag, fully ready to shut the door right after.

 

Hanamaki’s grumbling to himself as he ignores him and instead pushes his way into Hajime’s apartment, the bag rustling as he toes off his shoes.

 

“You asked me for fucking first aid supplies. I thought you’d been beat up again.”

 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes at that comment - it’s not like he’s been in any fights _super_ recently. Actually inviting Hanamaki into his apartment wasn’t really on the agenda, but at the same time Iwaizumi has learned to pick his battles with the other, so he just shuts the door and hopes that Hanamaki will get the point when he realizes they aren’t alone.

 

“I’m fine,” he says quietly to placate the other, knowing Hanamaki is genuinely concerned as they shuffle past the bathroom back into the apartment. “It’s not for me.”

 

He stops in the middle of the room, and Hanamaki frowns at him before there’s movement in the corner which quickly draws his attention. They both look over at the mattress, where there’s more rustling until Oikawa finally rouses enough to sit up.

 

His hair is a riot of unruliness since he went to sleep with it still damp after his tears finally stopped, exhausted. It’s kind of cute to see it so unflattering, but it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t get sick on top of everything else, Hajime thinks.

 

But then he registers the bruising on the boy’s cheek bone, which travels up in a curve almost to his temple. It’s undoubtedly worse than the night before, having blossomed into an angry mottled purple accompanied with other sick blends of bruising. The area is visibly swollen still. Despite how bad it looks, it seems like Oikawa has forgotten about it completely.

 

That is, until he tries to pull a face and promptly winces at the movement.

 

Immediately his eyes widen, flicking from Iwaizumi over to Hanamaki and back again, before he’s rearing back and lifting a hand to hide the injury with a choked, hysterical sound.

 

“Fuck,” Hanamaki hisses in sympathy. The look he fires Iwaizumi is ten shades of ‘what the fuck’, clearly wondering what’s going on--

 

But Iwaizumi’s a little more concerned with Oikawa, who has scooted back against the wall, bringing his knees up to his chest and using the sheets as a shield to hide his face.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, advancing on him carefully and wondering what the fuck he should do.

 

No verbal response. The fabric of the blankets twist even more under a tightening grip.

 

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi murmurs, crouching by the mattress. “It’s alright. I just asked him to bring some stuff to help with the bruising, I wasn’t planning on him coming inside.” Still, he should have woken Oikawa up and told him. Or just gone himself, even if it ran the risk of Oikawa waking up alone. He didn’t think it through - he hadn’t expected it to be an issue, which was definitely short-sighted on his part.

 

“I’m fine!” Oikawa says, shrill with panic and embarrassment. It grates on Iwaizumi’s ears. “I’m fine, I swear. It’s not a big deal, so--!”

 

Iwaizumi sends a helpless glance back at Hanamaki, who is too busy watching with wide eyes to be of any help. He turns back to Oikawa. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs apologetically. “I didn’t think. I just knew it would be bad today, and I wanted to help.”

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

How stupid of him. He shouldn’t have come back here last night; he should have stayed away. To come to Iwaizumi’s apartment and continue to impose is bad enough, but to worry him on top of that is ungrateful and selfish. Forgetting about all of it the next morning is just so... stupid.

 

He can’t believe this. Not only is he a burden to Iwaizumi, but he also has to look like this in front of one of his best friends. A friend who already disliked him from their first meeting and hasn’t particularly warmed to him the few times they’ve crossed paths since then.

 

What must Hanamaki think of him, staying at Iwaizumi’s place like this? Making him feel like he needs to apologize in his own home?

 

This is terrible. He ruins everything.

 

“Oikawa.”

 

Both he and Iwaizumi freeze at that. Tooru can’t help but peek over the sheets he’s been instinctively using as a barrier. To be truthful, he didn’t think Hanamaki would even remember his name, never mind address him directly with it.

 

“We didn’t mean to freak you out,” the other boy says. His low voice is slow, careful. “Iwaizumi just asked me to fetch some stuff for him, and then I barged in because I thought he’d done something stupid again. It’s my fault, not his.”

 

Tooru lets out a breath, considering the words. There’s no aggression there - the pity is almost as bad but at least he can stop feeling so frightened. Maybe he can diffuse this situation and go on his way.

 

“Sorry,” he says to them both with a fake laugh, embarrassed by his panic and fear, willing his heart to calm. He’s very conscious of what his face looks like, and he tries to turn it away from them, avoiding their gazes.

 

He’s such an eyesore.

 

“Don’t apologize,” Iwaizumi says, quiet but forceful, and Oikawa shrinks a little, cringing away from him and feeling terrible about the way it makes the other boy tense up.

 

Oikawa remembers Iwaizumi's words from the night before - the sadness in his tone; how they had been laced with finality. How Oikawa himself wishes that he could believe that last night really was the end of this whole awful period of his life.

 

“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan,” he blubbers, not knowing what he’s apologizing for exactly, but giving into the compulsion to do so anyway. He’s a burden and unworthy, just such a fucking mess, and he shouldn’t be pushing this all on Iwaizumi. It’s taking advantage of his kindness. It's too much.

 

He imagines Hanamaki telling Iwaizumi as much later on. It’ll probably take some convincing but eventually he’ll see it, too.

 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Iwaizumi says, calm and gentle despite how much trouble Tooru really is. “None of this is your fault, I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

 

Then Iwaizumi is offering his hand, resting it palm-up on the mattress. There’s nothing pushy about it, just an invitation to take if Oikawa wants it, like always. And he does. He sniffles as he forces one of his hands to let go of the twisted sheets in his grasp and holds Iwa-chan’s hand instead.

 

It’s warm.

 

It makes him feel safe.

 

“Oikawa,” Hanamaki speaks up, closer now, and Oikawa looks up from the joined hands to the other boy. “Can I take a look? Iwaizumi’s too heavy-handed and clumsy to help.”

 

Iwaizumi kisses his teeth. “I’ll have you know I’m a light touch.”

 

“I think you mean you're ‘light-fingered’, idiot. If you’re not stealing from people you’re hopeless,” Hanamaki fires back, the mattress bouncing as he walks up from the bottom, plopping down indelicately in front of Oikawa.

 

The white bag he’d been carrying is dropped beside his knee before he starts rustling through it. Pulling out a box, he turns back to Oikawa.

 

“Is it alright if I—?”

 

It’s instinct to check with Iwaizumi, but the other boy just watches him back, leaving him to make his own decision. With a swallow, Oikawa turns to Hanamaki and nods.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” is Hanamaki’s promise as he opens the box to pull out a tube of ointment. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

 

Iwaizumi squeezes Oikawa’s hand a little, but Oikawa doesn’t think it’s on purpose. He watches as Hanamaki unscrews the cap, puncturing the tube’s seal before he squeezes some ointment onto the pads of his first two fingers.

 

“You ready?” Hanamaki asks, waiting for Oikawa’s nod before he gently turns his face a little, presumably to see it better.

 

“Is it bad?” he finds himself asking, unsure who he’s addressing with the question.

 

Iwaizumi squeezes his hand again but doesn’t say a word.

 

Hanamaki, on the other hand, snorts and says “oh yeah,” with no apparent care for reassurance.

 

Tooru bites his lip. “This is gonna hurt, isn’t it?”

 

Conspicuously, he doesn’t get an answer to that. Instead Hanamaki lifts his fingers to his cheekbone and gets to work.

 

With the first slightest pressure Oikawa winces and cringes away instinctively. Surprisingly, Hanamaki is patient and says nothing, only continuing when he senses Oikawa has steeled himself properly this time. There’s a savage sting as Hanamaki’s fingers begin at the epicenter of the radiating pain, so Oikawa figures there must be some kind of cut there - he couldn't bare to look at himself in the mirror last night. The blow had been a hard one, but the adrenaline and then the cold wind had numbed him the night before. That along with Oikawa’s single-minded determination to get back here helped him forget the pain, almost as if he could ignore it altogether if not for the wild, panicked part inside of him that could only think how it could have gone  _so much worse._

 

Right now the pain blooms again, and it’s not perfect first-aid, Hanamaki sticks to his word and tries to be gentle.

 

It’s an intimate moment to share with someone he doesn’t know at all - but even with how standoffish Hanamaki has been with him the couple of times they’ve found themselves in each other’s company these past two months, it isn’t uncomfortable. Oikawa doesn’t want Hanamaki to suddenly go easy on him because he pities him, but it feels like maybe there’s a chance to turn things around here.

 

Thankfully, the wound is on the left side of his face, which means he’s able to avoid Iwaizumi as the treatment continues. staring at the blank wall instead. Every so often Hanamaki will apply a little too much pressure, but Oikawa at least has Iwaizumi’s hand to squeeze in those moments. The other boy doesn’t voice a single complaint - he’s a stalwart, calming presence at his side.

 

Quickly Hanamaki finishes up, pulling back and blinking away intense concentration as he twists the cap back onto the ointment with a little hum.

 

“Let that soak in and then you should really ice it to help with the swelling. Dumbass should have gotten you ice right away, but the cut’s gotta be dealt with now. Apply that ointment again tonight, especially there.”

 

Oikawa nods, watching as Hanamaki passes the tube to Iwaizumi, who places it atop the magazine stack for later.

 

“You’re good at that,” Oikawa says into the semi-awkward silence among the three of them, just to try and extend an olive branch to the other boy.

 

Hanamaki shrugs.“My uncle drinks a lot,” he says, before slapping his knees to signal the end of that conversation. “Anyone want some candy?”

 

And then he’s rustling in the bag again, pulling out a chocolate bar and handing both Oikawa and Iwaizumi a square. The rest is clearly for himself since he takes a large bite from the remaining block with relish.

 

“Where’s Matsukawa?” Iwaizumi asks as Oikawa nibbles on his gifted share. Without a word, Iwaizumi places his own piece on Oikawa’s knee in offering. His other hand is still wrapped in Tooru’s and he doesn’t make an effort to pull away just yet.

 

“Class.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Oikawa watches them both curiously as he eats. Class - what a novel thought. To his surprise, he’s caught himself thinking longingly of school from time to time. It’s more of a luxury than he’d ever thought - he hadn’t expected any of his three new acquaintances to still be in education.

 

Iwaizumi slumps a little, relaxed now. “Matsukawa lives with his grandma,” he tells Oikawa when he spots the interested look on his face. “She used all her savings to pay for him to join some computer course at a local college.”

 

“Oh, that’s cool,” he says, and really means it.

 

Hanamaki quirks a grin. “It’d be a shame to waste all that genius.”

 

They sit and breathe for a few moments, before Hanamaki is twisting to look around the tiny apartment. “You still didn’t buy a new TV?” he asks, with the tone of someone who cannot comprehend this particular lifestyle choice.

 

The response is immediate: “I’m saving for a car.”

 

“What do you do when you’re here in the meantime, though? Sit and stare at the wall?”

 

Oikawa snickers at Iwaizumi’s distinctly unimpressed expression.

 

“I have a phone and a radio, dumbass. Plus, now Oikawa’s around to talk to.”

 

Oikawa feels his cheeks heat up when Hanamaki turns an assessing stare his way, humming curiously as he continues to eat his candy.

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

The Conversation, when it happens a few hours later, goes something like this:

 

“I meant what I said last night. You should stop - it’s too dangerous.”

 

“I can’t. It’s - it’s not that easy. I have to--”

 

“It can be, though. Just stay here. When you feel better we can figure something out.”

 

“Iwa-chan, that’s too--”

 

“Oikawa. If you’re only putting up a fight because you feel like you should, don’t. You’re welcome here; we’ll figure something out.”

 

And so Tooru concedes and moves in with Iwaizumi for real.

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

Over the next couple of weeks Oikawa mostly stays in the apartment. He listens to the radio, cleans, cooks the most basic meals, gets bored reading Iwa-chan’s car magazines and sleeps. He sleeps a lot. After a few days, Iwaizumi starts to drag him out to the convenience store or for a walk every now and again to stop him from being a complete shut-in.

 

On a couple of occasions they meet up with Matsukawa and Hanamaki at a pool hall or diner, the former of whom is as chill as ever. Since the day he helped Oikawa out at Iwaizumi’s apartment, Hanamaki has been friendlier - he includes Oikawa in conversations, engages with him more, and the cold snap of distrust starts to thaw in his voice. At around the three week mark, Hanamaki shows up while Iwaizumi is out ‘working’. It takes him shouting through the door to unfreeze Tooru’s sudden terror at the unexpected knocking and let him in, but when he does manage to pull himself together, he’s rewarded with the sight of Hanamaki with a small, old TV under his arm and a grin on his face.

 

The television is of obviously dubious origin which Hanamaki conspicuously does not explain, but Oikawa is too excited by the prospect of it (following Hanamaki back into the apartment like an eager puppy) to question it.

 

“Pretty sure Iwaizumi is an alien since he’s lasted so long without a TV or a computer. Or maybe a cyborg, and he just powers down when no one’s around,” Hanamaki posits as he sets the small set directly onto the floor (since there’s still no table or other such surface for it) and starts the process of plugging it in. “Now that you two are apparently _roommates_ I’ve decided to stage my intervention.”

 

There's a little bit of strangeness in the fact Hanamaki is happily engaging him in conversation like this is just an everyday thing, but Oikawa chooses just to roll with it - after all, he does want Hanamaki to accept him. He also knows through Iwaizumi that Matsukawa has a big project at school keeping him busy, and this is probably why Hanamaki is here at all. It’s only at these times he seems to come over alone or bother Iwaizumi so insistently - this is his second visit this week. Iwaizumi says that Hanamaki often stays with Matsukawa and his grandmother, but doesn’t feel right about being in the house when the other boy isn’t around.

 

Hanamaki doesn’t say anything about that, though. Neither does Oikawa, though he privately understands how it feels to be an interloper. Part of him wants to say something, to make known this sudden shared common ground, but he doesn't.

 

Instead, the two of them sit in front of the 'new' TV and spend all day watching shows aimed at housewives before the eventual transition to after-school programming for kids.

 

When Iwaizumi comes home he stares at them blankly from the doorway for a moment before he dumps his bag and sits between them, just in time for the evening news.

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

They’ve been on a rotation system for who gets the mattress and who has to sleep on the chair ever since Oikawa started feeling too guilty about always getting the nicer option. That night though, Oikawa surprises Iwaizumi by bringing their sleeping situation up directly in conversation.

 

He seems to have recovered for the most part, and from what Hajime can tell, he’s pushing through whatever happened that night and rediscovering his personality. It’s a slow transition, but one he’s happy to watch - there are flares of who Oikawa truly is now and again, and it endears him all the more. Privately, Iwaizumi thinks a less timid version of Oikawa is more natural, not to mention a little more entertaining.

 

Oikawa proves he’s moving forward when he sits cross-legged in front of him and stares him down with determination.

 

“Iwa-chan,” he says with attempted gravity. When Iwaizumi looks up from his magazine, Oikawa's mouth is set in what he probably doesn’t intend to be a pout but most definitely is.

 

“Oikawa.”

 

The other takes that as his cue and he nods in thanks at the open forum given to him.

 

“The chair sucks.” And that’s… not what Hajime was expecting at all.

 

It is true, though. He watches Oikawa with a cocked brow and waits for the rest.

 

“So I was thinking. The mattress is a double, so we should just share.” He blinks after he says it, in a way that seems to dismiss the proposition as something that is so incredibly insignificant.

 

Oikawa gives himself away in the way he twists his fingers above the ditch in the center of his crossed legs.

 

It's kind of the complete opposite of insignificant, though. And isn’t it kind of… intimate?

 

Iwaizumi closes the magazine and sets it to the side. He returns Oikawa’s gaze head on, the two of them almost facing off against each other. Sure, they’ve known each other for maybe four months, but they’re almost definitely not at the stage where it’s cool to just share a bed. Iwaizumi’s not even sure if he’s ever shared with Matsukawa or Hanamaki, and he’s known them since he turned sixteen - that’s two whole years on Oikawa.

 

That’s not to mention all the baggage Oikawa is carrying - which is not to say it’s his fault at all, but it’s there all the same. Hajime has heard him waking up in a panic almost every night he’s stayed here so far.

 

So, the answer comes easy.

 

“No.”

 

Oikawa’s brows press down and inward, and that pout of his becomes more pronounced. If this weren’t such a serious, sensitive topic, Iwaizumi might have cracked a smile at the sight.

 

“Why not? The chair sucks. I don’t wanna sleep on it, and neither do you. If you’re gonna let me stay here I don’t wanna inconvenience you!”

 

Iwaizumi sighs and opts for the direct approach. “You’re really gonna be okay with someone that close to you?”

 

Those pouty lips twist in reaction to the straightforward question.

 

“Well - it’s--” he's floundering, searching for an argument he doesn't have right away, which is all Iwaizumi needs.

 

“Mm, that’s what I thought.”

 

“But I feel safe when I’m with you!” Oikawa blurts, sensing his oncoming loss on the matter, and Iwaizumi feels his entire body freeze at the admission. He watches with wide eyes as Oikawa’s cheeks seem to pinken up a little bit - though that could just be his imagination. “So if it’s Iwa-chan, I thought it might be okay…”

 

When he looks back up to Oikawa’s eyes, they’re defiant. Determined. Iwaizumi hasn’t ever seen an expression like that on Oikawa - even the first time they met, his challenging look had been muted by suspicion and fear. This time, there’s nothing like that holding him back. Iwaizumi thinks it suits him.

 

It’s probably a bad idea, but he lets out a breath that forces his shoulders to drop and his spine to curve back into a slouch. “We can try.”

 

 

Neither of them can sleep at first. Iwaizumi takes the side against the wall because he thinks Oikawa might like the space to get out if he needs it. They talk at first, but the conversation peters out and leaves them awkwardly waiting for slumber. The lamp light is on but they daren’t look at each other, lying on their backs as far to their respective edge of the mattress as they can be.

 

They must both drift eventually. It's the only explanation for what happens next - Hajime isn’t sure which he registers first because it all happens so fast, but there’s unintended physical contact and then Oikawa is awake, gasping choked breaths and trying to kick out of the blankets so hard he’s just tangling himself in them even worse. Iwaizumi’s heart is hammering in his chest from being woken so suddenly himself, but somehow he still has the presence of mind to press himself back against the wall, giving Oikawa more space until the boy frees himself from the mattress.

 

“It’s me,” Iwaizumi says, fighting to recover from the sudden outburst himself and wondering if calling out is even the best thing to do. Reaching out to touch him is _definitely_ not the way to go, he knows that much. “It’s just me, Oikawa.”

 

Oikawa jolts, a mess of instinct and shaking limbs on the floor until he looks over at Iwaizumi. It takes a second, but the wild look in his eyes calms a little as he seems to register both the words and what (or who) he’s seeing. He slumps into a heap, and then the familiar hitched sounds of his crying filters through.

 

Iwaizumi hates to hear Oikawa apologize for things that he can’t control.

 

 

However, Oikawa is adamant about making it work. He says it’s something he has to get over at some point; that he just needs practice. They try a bunch of things in the couple of weeks that follow: pillow barriers in the center of the mattress; leaving the main light on; switching places; one going to sleep before the other. They try leaving the TV on of course, but there’s no way to know what will be on the screen if and when Oikawa rouses from slumber, and more often that not it just makes him more disorientated and frightened when it does happen.

 

In the end, they find the remedy by accident.

 

Going to sleep has become something Oikawa visibly dreads, and even Iwaizumi has to admit he doesn’t exactly look forward to it.

 

They’re back to lying on their backs in silence, staring at the ceiling and probably both wondering what will happen tonight: will Oikawa have a nightmare? Will one of them brush against the other and set him off that way? Will there be a siren or loud noise that jolts him from sleep?

 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa tries, but his emotions are evident in his voice, killing whatever words were to follow.

 

Iwaizumi isn’t qualified to deal with this - but then again, neither is Oikawa. They’re fumbling through this together, trying to figure it out.

 

Suddenly he remembers the day Hanamaki had come over; how something in Oikawa had settled in the moment he took Iwaizumi's offered hand. Without dwelling too much on it - more than keen to try anything that might help - he brings his arm out from beneath the blankets and lays it out between them, palm up.

 

There’s a moment of nothing, and then rustling as Oikawa does the same, linking their hands together.

 

 

It’s the first time they both sleep through the night.

 

 

That’s not to say everything goes well every night from that point. There are still hiccups; there are still things that jolt Oikawa from slumber and set off his fight-or-flight survival reflexes, whether that be a noise or something conjured by his own mind when he’s defenseless in sleep. But it does get easier. They both get used to having someone close by - most importantly, _Oikawa_ gets used to it, and a little more comfortable.

 

The fact that it’s just _Iwa-chan_ seems to settle in his consciousness - when he _does_ still wake in the night it must be a far less violent reaction, because sometimes the only indication Iwaizumi gets that it’s happened at all is waking up to an Oikawa who’s already been up for hours. Even while still losing sleep, Oikawa seems a lot less... harrowed. At this point, seeing any kind of improvement is enough for Hajime. They can keep working on it.

 

It’s learning to share space with someone else. Not just in the sense of them living together in the same apartment, but also in the far more limited, intimate space of the mattress itself. It’s putting that trust in the other person - and while Hajime isn’t blind to the fact that Oikawa’s efforts on that front far outweigh his own, it’s also something he has to learn, too.

 

After all, it’s not just Oikawa who is no longer alone.

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

 

March brings Spring with it, adding some warmth to the sun when it shines and making the world feel like a slightly happier place. It’s also when Oikawa meets the infamous Irihata for the first time.

 

He’s had a week of pretty decent sleep even sharing with Iwa-chan - the best so far, even - so he’s at least feeling good physically when Iwaizumi invites him along one day. Where to Oikawa isn’t exactly sure, but he’s just happy to be included (not to mention that buzzing curiosity has been starting to wear him thin), so he manages to refrain from asking too many questions, content with the knowledge that some will inevitably be answered soon enough.

 

Oikawa’s gotten used to walking side-by-side with Iwaizumi in the daytime over the past couple of months, so rather than making idle conversation, he’s content with observing the new surroundings as Iwaizumi takes them to a section of the city limits he’s never been to before.

 

The plots are a little bigger compared to the cramped rows of dive bars and grocery stores that lie just beyond Iwaizumi’s neighborhood, which is about as far as Oikawa roams these days. This area seems a little more industrial - old brick and concrete buildings with faded shutters that appear to be a mixture of auto shops, furniture stores and old factories.

 

It’s one such nondescript building that Iwaizumi leads him to, the faded and neglected sign suggesting the place has been out of commission for some time. Even so, Iwaizumi seems unbothered, and when he reaches to push open he glass door covered with old newspaper, it yields with no resistance.

 

It seems to be a small lobby-cum-office when they first step in. There’s a desk that must have been for some admin assistant at one time, but now there’s just a boy maybe thirteen or fourteen playing an old gameboy slouched in the chair with his feet up on the desk. He doesn’t raise his eyes to look at them and Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to bother acknowledge him either, instead breezing straight past him to the door beyond, glancing back only once to check Oikawa is following.

 

The room opens up then, a cavernous concrete space lit by old strip lighting amongst the metal rafters. It’s not in disrepair - it’s just an aged space, suffering from its emptiness compared to how full it must have been with machinery of some sort at one time. The few pieces of hunking mental that remain have been pushed to the perimeter of the room, covered with yellowing dust sheets.

 

In one corner there’s a low coffee table, a gaggle of five boys sat in a mishmash of old armchairs gathered around it playing a lively card game of some sort. Oikawa drags his eyes away before he catches their attention, and they land on a battered blue sofa where a girl sits reading a book, accompanied by a boy next to her sitting upside down, his sneakers in the air as he blabbers about something Oikawa can’t hear.

 

It's more young people he’s seen gathered in one place since… well, school. He's been trying to survive in a world of adults for long enough now that he almost forgot other people his age existed.

 

“You know all these people?” he asks Iwaizumi, unconsciously shuffling closer towards him until their sleeves brush.

 

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Most of ‘em,” he says. “Some better than others. Who’s here changes day to day.”

 

Oikawa is fascinated, eyes darting around the makeshift rec center. Iwaizumi nudges him and then continues on - when Oikawa refocuses, he notices the mahogany desk at one end of the room and the middle-aged man sat behind it, working on a laptop.

 

So _this_ is Irihata.

 

They stop in front of the desk and Iwa-chan shoves his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket.

 

“This is Oikawa.”

 

Nothing for a moment as Irihata continues to type, but after a moment he stops and looks up at them over the top of his glasses.

 

He’s… Well, Tooru doesn’t know exactly what he’d been expecting, but Irihata looks… normal. His dark hair is short and parted to the side, and though there are some lines to his face, his features are distinguished in a way that suggests he might have been handsome in his youth. Still, something about him seems to radiate authority, in the same way that some of the teachers at Oikawa’s high school did.

 

Dark eyes flick from Iwa-chan to Oikawa, and though there’s no particular expression on the older man’s face, Oikawa still feels the unmistakable weight of his assessing gaze.

 

“Oikawa,” Irihata repeats, voice a smooth but natural rumble. Oikawa is especially uncomfortable around men Irihata’s age, but he resists the very real urge to reach out and hold onto Iwa-chan’s sleeve. If this ends up being a test, he’s determined to pass it.

 

He turns back to Iwaizumi, leaving Oikawa free to breathe again, and there seems to be some calculation going on.

 

Iwaizumi isn’t fazed.

 

“He’s gonna be sticking with me,” he tells Irihata, shoulders relaxed. “Just so you know.”

 

Irihata’s thick browse shift upwards slightly at the news, but right after the man sits back in his chair and crosses his arms.

 

“...Ah, I see," Irihata says, and Oikawa is sure he's missing something here. Irihata continues, "will you be joining in, Oikawa-kun?”

 

Iwa-chan turns to look at him too and Oikawa feels caught. He remembers Iwaizumi vaguely referring to Irihata in conversation - _I was taken in by a guy who was pretty good at it, and he taught me everything he knows. I work for him now_. It’s obvious that Irihata is who Iwaizumi works for; who taught him how to survive through stealing. Oikawa had wanted to believe Iwaizumi when he said he didn’t have to go back to _working_ , but a part have him has always expected things to die off until he eventually did have to go back.

 

 _Will you be joining in?_ This is - a way out? He thinks? It might not be the best nor the most legitimate, but it’s not what he was doing before, and that’s perhaps the single most important thing. It’s definitely what makes him square his shoulders, look Irihata in the eye and nod.

 

“If that’s okay,” he says. It’s not enough, though - he licks his lips, searching for the words he can use to convince the older man. “I’m - smart. I was good with people, before.” Strangely, the more he says, the more he believes it. The more strength is added to his voice. He glances to the side and there’s a slight upward tick at the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth, the sight of which bolsters him. Iwaizumi offers a near-imperceptible nod and Oikawa clenches his fist as he finishes: “I can work hard.”

 

Irihata’s face stays composed for a few seconds, long enough for the moment to stretch almost painfully for Oikawa, but then slowly, he smiles. And it’s not something sinister or lecherous like he’s been used to seeing from older men, it’s almost… warm.

 

“I believe you,” Irihata says, again with that gaze looking right into Oikawa’s soul. In turn, Oikawa gets the feeling that Irihata means it, that maybe he's being invested in.

 

Slowly, Irihata pushes his chair away from the desk and rises to stand. He’s not a particularly impressive height, but there’s no doubt he has a presence to him. He rounds the desk, grabs the pack of cigarettes that had being lying by his laptop and tosses it to Iwaizumi.

 

“So, Oikawa-kun. What do you know about taking things that don’t belong to you?

 

And so begins the (mis)education of Oikawa Tooru.

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

Irihata, for all his Pied Piper tendencies, doesn’t actually take the time to teach many of the kids personally. Mostly he just lets them do the usual - opportunistic steals, scams, muggings, whatever. He leaves it up to the person to decide the technique and instead takes care of finding fences to shift the stolen gear with his network of shady connections. While it might mean kids lose some money when Irihata takes his cut, the other benefits outweigh that loss: they get the stolen items converted to cash for them, and they also get a certain degree of protection from being under his ‘care’. That tidbit of safety, of security, goes a long way.

 

Still, he’d taken Iwaizumi under his wing as a sort of apprentice a few years ago, passing down the ‘art’ of pickpocketing for unknown reasons. From Oikawa’s first rudimentary lesson that day, it would seem he’s going to be getting a little instruction, too. Iwa-chan tells him all of this when they get home that night, immediately heading to the mattress due to the late hour. Oikawa hums and haws at the right points, listening intently and storing the information for later.

 

There’s a lull in the conversation where Oikawa starts to think back on the day. How nervous he was (and still is) around Irihata - only emphasizing a problem he already knew he had. Truth be told, Oikawa isn’t sure he’ll ever lose that inherent distrust in his elders. He isn’t sure he _wants_ to lose it.

 

Irihata isn’t that bad though. And he and Iwa-chan seem fairly close. There’s a sense of formality there - and boy is it weird to see Iwa-chan interacting with and deferring to someone his senior - but from the sharing of the cigarettes to the banter and the silent conversations traded between them, they clearly know each other pretty well.

 

They’re still holding hands in their usual late night ritual, even if they aren’t talking anymore. It’s those fingers slotted between his own, that warm palm pressed against his and the darkness of the room that finally give Oikawa the gumption to ask:

 

“So how do you know each other, Iwa-chan?”

 

“Me and Irihata?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A pause.

 

“He knew my mom.”

 

Oikawa stills, unsure what to say. They’ve never brought up the topic of their parents before, and the unknown territory looms before Tooru in the darkness of the room. He licks his lips, trying to think of something to say to that, when Iwaizumi saves him the trouble:

 

“She was like you.”

 

It takes no time at all for Oikawa to figure out what he means by that one. Suddenly, things make a little more sense.

 

“I met him a few times before, when - when she was still around. At our apartment, a couple of times.”

 

Oikawa isn’t stupid - he knows what that means, too. He squeezes Iwaizumi’s hand gently as his eyes try to seek out patterns in the ceiling above them as his mind races. “Does that bother you?” he asks after a short mental debate, still without knowing the answer to whether or not he should have posed the question at all.

 

A rustle and a tiny tug on his hand tells Oikawa that Iwaizumi shrugs at the question. “Just the way it is,” he says after a second, and his voice is surprisingly even. Oikawa’s gut churns with sadness even though he knows all too well himself how true those words are. He's learnt that life can be cruel and ugly and that a lot of the time, you just have to live with it.

 

“Irihata’s never tried to convince me he’s a good person. And I don’t think anyone in this world is, really,” Iwa-chan continues, and Oikawa can’t fight the urge to turn his head to look at him, the pillow cold against his cheek when he does so. “But he wasn’t - bad, to her, I don’t think. From what I remember, they were… friends. But she had a lot of stuff going on, looking back, and then she was gone.”

 

Oikawa doesn’t dare ask what that means. He doesn’t think he even needs to know the specifics.

 

“He cared about her a lot. He didn’t have to look out for me after, but he did, and I think that says something. It’s whatever, though.”

 

It’s not _whatever_ at all, Tooru thinks to himself. It’s a very complicated situation. It had been clear to him from the start that Iwaizumi’s life hadn't been easy either, but it’s still a lot to hear the details of how. The fact he’s being told this much at all doesn’t escape him, either. It's a big step for them.

 

“Iwa-chan,” he says, eyes tracking over the boy’s profile in the meager light offered through the apartment window, “how come you have it all together?” They’re the same age, and have both had rough times, but Iwa-chan seems so… different to him. “You’re so level-headed. Composed, you know?” Even despite the shitty hand he'd been dealt. Not for the first time, Tooru's jealous of him.

 

Iwaizumi lets out an exhale. “That’s not true at all,” he says quietly. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m scared pretty much all the time.”

 

Oikawa bites his lip, disbelief and then guilt tugging at his chest at the words. It’s unfair, perhaps, that his first instinct is to doubt the vulnerable and honest admission. The Iwaizumi he knows is dependable, confident. Even the way he’s revealing these things about himself so openly is brave; he can’t imagine Iwaizumi being as scared and unsure as Oikawa is. He can't imagine Iwaizumi feeling as low or as lonely as Oikawa had been feeling when they first met.

 

Maybe that’s a sign he’s been putting Iwa-chan on a pedestal, at least partly. After all, they’re both just messed up kids trying to survive. Oikawa tightens his hold on Iwaizumi’s hand and vows to see him as someone who needs support, too; that maybe this can and should be a two-way street.

 

“But I was taught a way to survive and I’m pretty good at it, so that’s what I do,” Iwaizumi continues. “It’s working so far.”

 

“If you got the chance to do something else, what would it be?” He regrets it as soon as he asks. Dreaming up hypothetical situations hurts more than it helps, he knows.

 

“Never thought about it.”

 

Oikawa supposes for a pragmatist like Iwaizumi, there’s no point thinking about what ifs.

 

 

♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛ ♔ ♛

 

 

The next morning, Oikawa is loitering by the kitchen counter, bare feet against the cold floor as he leans over the toaster. The TV is switched onto to a breakfast show, but even if the volume wasn’t set so low, he’d still miss the interview taking place because of his happy humming. Iwaizumi watches him for a moment, recognizing the gradual change in the other. It’s nice to see him like this - content. Something close to normal.

 

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi calls from where he’s sitting on the mattress, and Oikawa looks at him over his shoulder.

 

“Iwa-chan, if the wind changes your face’ll get stuck in that frown!” he mock-scolds in response to whatever look Iwaizumi is apparently sporting.

 

When Iwaizumi doesn't offer back a sarcastic reply, something in Oikawa’s expression shifts, like maybe he’s a little worried. Iwaizumi supposes he’d sounded a little serious out of nowhere, and recognizes it’s his fault.

 

“About last night,” he says, to put Oikawa out of his misery. “About what I told you about my mom -”

 

That doesn’t quite work, because Iwaizumi watches as Oikawa fights to school his expression now he knows what topic is at hand. Even so, he still waits for Iwaizumi to speak before he reacts, and Iwaizumi thinks that too is progress.

 

Feeling a little harassed, Hajime scrubs a hand through his wild bedhead before meeting Oikawa’s gaze again. It’s something he’d thought about last night, but by the time he’d figured out what he wanted to say, the moment had passed. The nagging feeling returned to him when he awoke, lying there and listening to the ambient sounds of Oikawa navigating the morning. He doesn’t want to let this moment pass again; he wants to be clear on this, even if it isn’t the easiest subject to tackle.

 

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I didn’t help you out because of her - or not completely, anyway.” He’s never been good at expressing himself; he’s never really been the person to want to, even if he had the opportunity. Important things need to be said to prevent misunderstanding, though. And any lack of clarity, any chance of misunderstanding, is the last thing he wants between him and Oikawa.

 

“It’s not like some weird savior thing. Maybe all that stuff helped me see _you_  a little more or something, I don’t know. But just - you’re _you_ , and I know that. You’re not a redo, or a substitute for her. Maybe you didn’t think that anyway, but I just wanted to make that clear.”

 

Oikawa’s eyes are wide as they watch him from across the room. Iwaizumi feels his cheeks heat and he glares off to the side, feeling weirdly abashed.

 

“...Okay,” Oikawa says, and he sounds as blindsided as he looks. When Iwaizumi shrugs, it’s jerkier than he means it to be.

 

He’s never been under any illusion that helping Oikawa would suddenly mean his mom is safe somewhere, or that she'd ever come home. He _hopes_ she's alright, but he doesn't think he'll ever really know. One thing he's sure of is that Oikawa is not a replacement for her. From what Iwaizumi remembers of his mother, they two of them are nothing like each other, and that's a good thing. He thinks they could have been eventually, though. And that's a little scary.

 

There's the soft sound of footfalls as Oikawa pads back over to the bed, crouching down beside it.

 

"Iwa-chan," he says, and when Iwaizumi looks up at his face his expression has settled. He looks calm. "From now on, let's look out for each other."

 

There's weight in those words, but it's the kind that soothes him; that holds a promise. Iwaizumi nods.

 

The two of them are not the same. What they've each been through - those kinds of things can’t be measured against each other, he doesn’t think. But they’re together now.  They can both be scared, and they can both be there for each other. They can be equals.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when will there be r o m a n c e ?????
> 
> hope you liked it!! please consider leaving a comment if you have time, it really helps (and makes me feel nice c: )  
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